


Clubbed to Death

by brodylover



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood, Child Abuse, Demon Castiel, Demon Gabriel, Fights, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Long, M/M, Magic, Major character death - Freeform, Mentions of Suicide, Multi, Physical Abuse, Piercings, Road Trips, Sexual Experimentation, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Teenagers, Whump, demon balthazar, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1682756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brodylover/pseuds/brodylover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester spent most of his life protecting Sam from their father's abuse but at the age of 18 he stole the family car and Sam, disappearing into the night. They've been on a road trip ever since, surviving off of the money Dean makes at illegal fight clubs. Elements are forcing them back home though and to a secret that their father's been hiding all of their lives. Learning that there is a whole other world full of magic and strange characters is just the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fight Test

Flickering lights. Dirt with blood staining it. Shouts and applause. It was an old barn, the fluorescents ancient and barely working, but it was still enough. As long as the audience could see blood it was enough. They were barely able to contain themselves, gray fold-up chairs, uncomfortable beneath them, and they kept getting to their feet, cheering and booing at the fights below, the skin on skin, the teeth knocked loose by blows.

Sam wasn’t shoving his fist into the air, wasn’t screaming until his throat was raw. His head was down, his mind elsewhere, his butt feeling flat and cold against the metal of his chair. He knew what was going on, didn’t have to see it. He’d been to enough of these shows to know every last detail, could tell from the crowd when each blow connected. He had never cared much for fighting, but watching it like this made his feel sick to his stomach.

He liked cleaning up afterwards even less, stitching up broken skin, applying ice to swollen eyes, cheeks, lips, pushing bones back into their sockets. He would not cheer, not when he knew that that was coming. He just sat, his arms folded over his chest, his chin down on his clavicle, his eyes on the makeshift stage with lids heavily covering them. To anyone else he’d look like he was asleep, but there was no way to sleep through all of this noise or the smell of blood and sweat in the air.

The noise grew and he knew that the fight was over. They were chanting out the winner’s name, watching as he limped away, outside. This wasn’t a real arena, this was just a barn, the only medic they had was the farmer’s wife and there wasn’t room for her to work in the barn with them.

When there was no one down there people sat down, discussed if you could use the word, and it was almost quiet enough for Sam to fall asleep. He knew who was next though, knew that he couldn’t sleep in the short moments when he could.

It was only a few minutes before the noise grew again, as the door on the right slammed open with the shot and the one on the left opened more slowly, more cautiously. The next contestants were coming onto the stage and Sam straightened his back, tried to look through the crowd as they rose once more to their feet.

On the right was an animal, all dark features and bright blue eyes, one arm raised to his fans. He was cagey, strong, maybe too strong, and he danced onto the stage, feet bouncing forward and back as if he was already trying to confuse his opponent. The poor lighting was enough to show that he was already sweating, that the wetness was pooling on his exposed chest. He was wearing himself out even before the fight started, jabbing the air with his tightly taped fist and making the light bounce on his sweat.

Boos and hisses came for the man on the left. This one was not a power house, did not play to the crowd. He was shorter but still muscular, looked like a child with big green eyes and a dusting of freckles. He lingered in the doorway before stepping out, walked instead of danced.

Sam ignored the gladiator flexing for the crowd, kept his eyes on Dean. He was breathing shallowly but his chest was still heaving with each breath and there a shaking to his fingers. He was nervous, unsure. He was always nervous before a fight. Those nerves always made Sam want to leave his seat, make his way down to him. There was no need for this.

He knew though, knew that the nerves would fade as soon as the first punch missed. He knew that it would miss, that and the second, possibly even the third. He was going to win this fight, it was already in the bag, but he was still questioning himself.

Everyone else thought he was going to fail. They’d all placed their bets before the fights had even begun, had all bet on the stronger, more keen looking fighter. None of them expected that a small freckled boy with such thickly lashed green eyes even stood a chance.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” a short, balding man, the farmer who owned the place most likely, stepped onto the stage, in between the two men. He surveyed the crowd, eyes traveling from one onlooker to the next, “Welcome to our own little version of the Fight Club! In this corner we have Darren Brown, our current reigning champion!” he waved over to the darker man and the cheering grew louder, the fists beat the air, there was whooping and hollering. The man in question pranced and bounced, a big toothless grin on his face as he received such praise. Dean, on the other side, didn’t even look at him, kept his eyes down and actually flinched as the moderator waved at him in turn. “And on this side we have a passer through, one Dean Winchester. We have two grand on the table per round and three rounds. If one of them wins all three they get an extra grand. As always, house rules: no weapons, no feet, only fists. Let’s keep it above the belt boys.”

The balding farmer, not even looking at what was happening behind him, hobbled off of the stage. He had been in an accident maybe, tilling the field, but Sam doubted it. That was the limp of a onetime fighter, someone who had lost one time too many.

There was a triangle hanging down near the side of the stage and the moderator rang it, signaling for the fight to start. The crowd settled down, just a small amount, not yelling quite so loud, not booing quite so menacingly. Some of them sat down, anxious to see blood and teeth and violence.

Sam’s tongue slipped out of his mouth, flicking the metal ring in his lip. It was a nervous habit, one that he couldn’t really control, but Dean couldn’t stand to see his do it, said it made him queasy. Here though, Dean couldn’t see him, and even though he knew he was going to win, he was worried and nervous alongside him. Playing with that stupid band helped his settle down.

Just as he’d expected it was Darren who threw the first punch. Dean just took a step back though, just enough for the throw to connect with air, to barely miss his horribly mutilated nose. There was a lot of strength behind it, the round was supposed to have ended after that hit, and the breeze coming from it made Dean’s loose strands of hair flutter. His hands weren’t even up, there were no fists, and his arms just hang loosely at his sides.

He wasn’t even trying to fight, wasn’t giving the audience what they wanted. He wasn’t fighting but he wasn’t cowering either and this wasn’t what the crowd wanted, wasn’t what they had paid to see. They started booing him again, louder now, waving their arms and trying to draw his attention away from his opponent. If they’d had something to throw they probably would have.

Darren, still sweating, was even more angered by this lack of respect, the surprise of his opponent not going down so easily. His face was growing red, a thick vein protruding on his forehead and what was left of his teeth were clenched tight.

He swung again, missed again, and Dean was down, ducking beneath the left hook. The strongman growled and threw more, punch after punch, not realizing for a goo long time that hooks would do nothing for him, they were strong but too slow, and Dean was able to dodge each and every one of them.

But when he threw a straight punch it was clearly not one he’d practiced. The aim was wrong and there wasn’t enough strength behind it, and it was slowed by his sweating body growing tired from such strong swings. The thin man grabbed the trunk like arm as it headed towards him, easily stepping out of the way, and pulled, gently. There was an audible gasp from the champion as he flew forward, his momentum working against him, as he fell to the ground.

Dean’s hand, finally, made a fist, his other on Darren’s sweaty and slipper shoulder, flipping him onto his back. He released him and the next time he grabbed, his hand was in his hair, pulling him up, his fist drawn back.

Sam shut his eyes tight. He knew what was coming, had seen it enough times to never want to see it again. It was Dean’s signature, the one that always ended at least one round and guaranteed the next. It was cruel and hard and ugly, and he’d seen it enough times in his sleep to want to stay away from it while awake.

Dean’s fist connected with the meaty part of his opponent’s cheek and eye, knuckles against cheek bone. There was a muffled sound, like the reigning champion was sobbing into a down pillow but that was just the start. Dean brought down his fist again, into the same spot, the sound squishier and softer. The third was positively wet and squelching.

There was no applause. There were no cheers. There were no boos or hissed. The crowd was silent, staring with mouths open and eyes wide. The smallest fighter was down there, covered in sweat, blood dripping down his still clenched fist, skin ripped open by the sharpness of the broken cheekbone.

He dropped the wounded animal and turned, glared at the crowd, so silent in their fear. His face was a challenge, his green eyes flashing with adrenaline. No one took his challenge, none wanted to, and none of them dared to make a sound against him.

There was a weak, pained pat on the ground and Dean turned back to his downed opponent, finally cognitive enough to tap out. Two burly men, their faces damaged and bruised from earlier fights, rushed onto the makeshift stage, grabbed Darren by the arms and hoisted him up, half dragged him away to the medic outside.

Sam sighed and slumped back in his chair, watching Dean slowly step around the stage, his feet uncertain. His adrenaline was up, his want to fight piqued, but he had to wait and as he waited he cooled down and the looks of the audience could climb into his brain. He knew how bad that could hurt, but it had gotten better since they’d started this.

The audience was calm now, almost expectant, one more round and, if they hadn’t bet against him, the crowd would have been cheering him on. Still, they seemed to have come to terms with their loss of money, at least for now. They hadn’t expected a young man with a nose broken so many times it was impossible to tell which way he was facing, moving so slowly, acting so nonchalant, to be such a good opponent. They now knew that he was someone to be feared. He was someone to watch and pay attention to.

The crowd was growing impatient though, almost as fast as Dean was losing interest and their seats squeaked as some of them sat back down. They whispered amongst each other, wondered about if Darren was even going to make the next two rounds. Some of them were sighing and standing up to leave.

The referee and manager must have noticed that his audience was about to go because Darren returned before any of them could make it out of the barn. This wasn’t the champion who returned though, wasn’t the dancing man with his fist raised, all ego and strength. This man didn’t walk quite straight, moved slower, and his hands were limp at his sides other than when they clenched into quick fists. The blood had been cleaned off of his face but there were large white stripes of tape holding on a thick bandage and it was so startling against his dark skin.

His head was down, his jaw clenched. He was trying to hide his rage. Dean was used to the charade, knew what he was hiding.

The triangle rang and the second round began. Darren moved, reacting to the way that Dean had defended the first time around, learning adapting. But Dean had switched tactics as well, was now circling his opponent, although his hands were still down, his haunted eyes still watching for any movement. Darren turned on his heel, elegant in his stumbling, moving with Dean, walking alongside him. As threatening as he had been before, now he was docile, his fists in rage but still reigned in, controlled.

Sam sighed, stretching out in his chair and rolling his eyes. This happened sometimes, not at every fight but at enough of them that it was almost expected. He was going to try to be patient, to wait for Dean to move, try to defeat him and humiliate him in some petty attempt at revenged. It wouldn’t work, it had never worked, because Dean had something that none of the other fighters seemed to understand.

Dean was, terribly, painfully, patient.

The crowd was getting restless, waiting, not wanting to miss anything but growing bored at the same time. They had been circling for at least ten minutes and, even though Darren was jumping forward, trying to psych Dean out, it wasn’t working.

Some of the audience members really needed to see some action.

Sam noticed the Neo Nazi in the corner, one of the few that got to stand at the sidelines. There were swastikas and German slang tattooed down his boney arms and in a collar around his short neck. He was grinning like an idiot, kicking the dirt floor, amping himself up. Sam could feel herself tighten up, ready to get down there. He looked like he was going to jump in on the fight himself.

“Hey!” the skinhead shouted, and there were teeth missing from his gums, phlegm spraying from his lips, “Hey Cowardly Lion! Ya think yer some kinda figher? My ma could tek ya on!”

Dean ignored him. He was good like that, good at staying on task. It was only in the downtime when he let things like that distract him; the audience’s boos, the teasing on the outskirts. He kept moving, kept circling, kept waiting for his opponent to get cocky and throw another punch.

Sam saw the action just before it happened, tried to shout, tried to warn Dean, but there wasn’t enough time, he was too late. As he passed by the skinhead a second time, the pale idiot stuck out his leg, caught Dean’s ankle with it, and lifted.

Dean fell, a surprised sound escaping him, the first sound to leave his mouth since he stepped onto the stage. He fell hard and fast, unable to catch himself, only able to land on his back, the air just about getting kicked from his lungs.

Darren took the opportunity, didn’t waste a second of it. He fell to his knees, let the momentum of it travel through his fist; bring it down with all of his weight and all of his speed. It was enough to shatter a skull, to kill a man if it landed just right. It didn’t.

Dean grabbed him by the shoulders before his knee had even connected with the earth, had pushed against his body, shot down between his legs just enough for the blow to miss him. It hit his hair and through it, the hard earth of dirt packed down by pacing feet and falling bodies. The pain brought tears to his eyes and ripped through the tape on his knuckles.

Dean swung then, his own uppercut connecting with the gladiator’s jaw, hard enough to make a loud cracking sound and push him away from his body, giving him enough time to climb back up to his feet.

Darren turned, his bloodied hand clasping his jaw, supporting it. It hadn’t been a strong enough hit, not on a bone that hard, and there was no chance that it was broken. That hadn’t stopped the pain though, neither from Darren’s jaw or Dean’s hand, and the tears were streaming down the large man’s dusty cheeks.

Dean couldn’t wait, not now that the audience was against him, and he rushed forward, fist low. He was so slow before but now, his motion of standing adding to the speed of his legs, almost knocking him forward, he was as fast as any runner, any sprinter trying to get to that finish line. He threw it and his fist landed millimeters away from the swelling of Darren’s eye, hitting the side of his nose and making it spew blood.

Darren was knocked off of his feet before he’d even gotten back onto them, hurtling backwards onto the ground.

Dean was on him, grabbing him once more by the hair, pulling him up as his aching fist pulled back. He didn’t hit though, didn’t bring that weapon down into the recesses that he had before. He just held him, frozen in time, staring as Darren struggled, his neck in an awkward position. He could have fought it, but he knew it was useless, they both did. Darren knew he had lost. Dean was just being good enough to give him the chance to tap out before he was forced to.

He whimpered but the knuckles of his good hand wrapped the ground.

The air erupted with cheering. It wasn’t as enthusiastic as it had been when their gladiator had first graced the stage, but it was something and if Dean let it get to him Sam thought he would have smiled.

The two giants from before rushed to the stage, helped the defeated champion to his feet and aided him back outside. Dean was left once more to pace around the stage; his eyes back down at the ground.

His eyes didn’t stay on the ground though, they flickered up as he walked, not so slowly now as his attention narrowed onto the Hitler Youth wannabe. The pale man took a step back, expecting what he deserved, a good punch. But Dean didn’t touch him. He was calm. He leaned forward, whispered something into the kids ear. Sam knew that he wouldn’t be able to hear a word but he leaned forward anyway, tried to catch just a snippet of it.

When he pulled back the smile on the youths face was wider, more cruel. There wasn’t a hint of fear in him. Sam didn’t like the look of that and he decided to keep an eye on him.

The wait between rounds was only about five minutes this time and when Darren stepped back onto the stage he seemed tired and beaten, his steps slow and cautious. He looked up at the audience, hoping to hear one cheer, see one face that believed in him. After all this, there wasn’t a single one.

It was an act though and when they bell rang his fighting style changed once more. Now he was fast and lye and he danced in circles around Dean, making him spin to keep an eye on him. His punches weren’t as strong but they were faster, more often, aiming for the thin torso or soft mouth of his small foe.

Dean couldn’t dodge quite as much, was too cramped, and pushed the blows away from his body with open hands.

It was sharp flashes, skin shooting through the air, speed and adrenaline, reactions and effects, on the inside. From the outside of the fight it was different, you could see muscles moving, could see which fist was coming forward, which foot was going back, which side of the stage they were inching towards. Sam bit at the ring in his lip, pulling at it until it threatened to tear his skin.

The skinhead was smiling, hadn’t stopped since Dean had whispered to him, but his eyes were open and he was watching differently now. He was waiting for an opportunity, an opening.

The light that had fallen from Darren’s eyes sparked back into life as he threw both arms out. Dean only blocked one but the other wasn’t a punch, it was a grab. Darren’s hold was tight on his shoulder as he brought his knee up, fast and hard. He jabbed the hard joint into Dean’s soft solar plexus, knocking the air out of his lungs and breaking all of the rules of the fight.

Sam was on his feet, hands clenching at his sides, words that He couldn’t hear screaming from his mouth. Dean was on his own knees and then he was down, curling as he tried to breathe.

The triangle was ringing, the referee signaling the fight over, trying to draw the animal out of his attack. Darren couldn’t be stopped though, especially not when the skinhead bounded to his side, joined him in the assault. Their feet collided over and over again with Dean’s ribs and now Sam was running, pushing through the crowd.

There were so many of them, all rushing forward, all trying to see, none to help. They’d all lost money on this fight. Sam couldn’t see through them, couldn’t hear the dull thuds of feet against stomach, against chest.

The crowd was booing now, even though they had started so against the newcomer. This was low, this was dirty. They hadn’t come to see this.

Sam hadn’t even reached them, hadn’t yet pushed through the strong shoulders and flabby sides, when it was all over. The ringing had stopped and now there were cheering. He made his way to the front, watched as the strong loser and the scrawny Nazi struggled in the arms of their captors. The two men who had helped Darren out to the medic station had broken up the assault, had them both in full nelsons. They looked small now, as weak as they had always been.

But looking smaller and looking weaker was Dean. He was lying on the ground, curled into a shaking fetal position. His bloodied and torn knuckled were digging into his too long hair, his other arm wrapped around his beaten gut. He was trying to prevent any more damage from falling on him, trying to keep himself safe.

Someone yelled at him, someone else tried to grab him, but he ignored them, raced to his fallen brother’s side. He jerked and tightened as he touched him, his hand softly resting on his quivering back.

“Hey.” He whispered, bending so that his words were quiet, hardly more than just his lips moving beside his ear. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s me. They’re gone.”

The hand dug so tight in his hair loosened and slowing his arm moved away from his face, bloodied by a stray kick. He didn’t move, only his arm slid forward, torn knuckles grabbing Sam by the shoulder and pulling him close.

He couldn’t sit up on his own; he was still sucking in air, unable to get his lungs full. He hoisted himself up the best he could though, made it so that he was sitting upright before he fell against Sam, burying his face in his neck. He wrapped his arms around him, consoled him, and leaned his cheek against his forehead. It was just like always, when the nightmares came, when he couldn’t handle things, when he grew angry and almost cruel before he realized it. He held him gently and rocked him back and forth, calmed him down.

The referee stepped back onto the stage, between the two downed siblings and the crowd. His arms were waving as he tried to calm the crowd down, tried to get the shouting to quell. They started to behave, albeit slowly, and turned to the farmer. Dean was there with them, turning to look at their host, not leaving the touch of his brother.

“This fight is over!” he yelled and it sounded like he was trying to hold in his own rage, his own desire to beat the two boys who were still struggling in the holds of the mountainous fighters. “Darren Brown is not only disqualified from this fight but from this den! He will never be permitted to fight here again! The kid who joined him is also banned for life! That leaves Dean Winchester as our winner! His total, for winning three rounds is seven grand!”

The man kept his eyes off of the audience, but he kept taking a step back, as if trying to shield Dean from any further harm.

“We have a few more fights tonight, but we’re going to be taking a bit of a break first. I’m sure you all understand.”

No one said a word. The audience moved back to their seats, a few looking over to see if Dean was alright. He wasn’t but there was nothing that they could do, Sam would get him straightened up.

The farmer left as well, limping off stage and towards the back of the barn. He waved the pair over but Sam just held up his hand. They would be there; they’d make their way to his office, but not yet. Dean had to take highest priority.

Sam put his arm over his shoulders, helping him up and snaking his arm around his waist. He was wincing and clenching his teeth, his free arm back around his ribs, trying to hold them in. They were probably fractured again but there was nothing that they could do about that here.

The stares from the crowd were heavy, but not terrible. They were kind, hopeful. They wanted Dean to be alright, wanted the underdog to come out on top. Sam could feel them without even looking. He shuffled his feet, walked slowly, helped his brother alongside him.

The barn doors had been left open during the fight, had allowed the summer air to cool down the fight. It was dark out there but there was a light above the barn and a few on in the very well taken care of farmhouse across the acreage.

The farmer’s wife, Sam didn’t even know his name, offered to help, leaving his medic station. There were ice packs and bandages and aspirin in individual packs, but Sam shook his head to all of it. He’d done this before, would probably do it again. What the nurse had wouldn’t fix his brother’s ribs; it would barely even take away from the pain.

So they walked on, along the fields of corn in their perfect rows. The stocks were green, even in the night air, and some had little windows of gold in them. Not all of the fields were growing, some were resting between harvests, but what was in use made the air smell of fresh clean growth and rich soil.

One of the untilled fields was being used as a parking lot and Sam helped his brother through the lines of pickup trucks, vans, and tractors. Not a single one of them was free of the spots of rust and they were all damaged by the trace amounts of salt that came down in the rains.

Amongst them was one without salt damage, who was not akin to work, who was loved as a family member more than a car. Sure, there was a dent in the fender and the paint was starting to peel from it, only to expose a slowly growing layer of rust, a few scratches here and there, and a couple of dings in the windshield, but that was nothing. He was in perfect condition compared to these farm vehicles.

Sam pulled the keys to the sleek black car from his pocket. He didn’t like driving, never had lessons or gotten a permit, but it wasn’t often He had the opportunity to drive it anyway. He just got to keep the keys when Dean was fighting.

It was his, not by right, but by love. It was old, 1967, and it had never been a popular model. No one had ever thought Impalas were the best, but it was to them. Dean may have hated the previous owner, but he took good care of that car and it had never let them down.

He unlocked all of the doors and Dean pulled away from him, pulled open the back door and fell onto the seat inside. It was leather and hard, but he didn’t care. He just needed to lie down, to stop moving. He turned over, gritting his teeth, and tried to get comfortable. His arm hadn’t left his bruised ribs.

He looked up at his brother, the one he’d sworn to protect. He had never heard that promise but He knew that it was there, He knew that Dean was like that car, a bit damaged, but he’d never let his down. How ironic it was then, that he was now in charge of taking care of him.

He leaned in to the car, an arm holding his up on the door frame. He didn’t want to show it, but he pitied him, in a way. He knew that he did this for him, as much as he denied that fact.

“I’ll be right back.” He promised and, before leaving, He locked all of the doors. Usually, he thought that Dean could take care of himself, but not here, not now, and there were a lot of people here who had lost a lot of money. There was a reason the people here came to see live aggression, he didn’t want to leave him vulnerable to that.

It didn’t matter if Dean had even heard him, his eyes were closed and his breathing was going back to normal, although hard breaths hurt his ribs.

The crowd didn’t seem to notice his as he walked back through the barn. He was just a person, not a fighter, not a worker. He was a nobody. He was able to move through the open space between the crowd and the stage without any problem, was able to make his way back to the farmers office.

The room looked like every other office that Sam had ever entered, dirty and poorly lit. Dean didn’t like his going into these places but this wasn’t the first time the crowd had beaten him, wasn’t the first time he’d lost a fight so badly he couldn’t collect what was due to him. The manager was sitting behind a desk heavy laden with papers. There was a laptop buried in there, but it looked more like it was gathering dust than anything else.

He looked up at his and didn’t even smile. All he did was hand out a large manila envelope. “Here’s what you’re owed. I’m sorry about what happened to your… uh…”

“Brother.” Sam finished. It was too often that they were confused for something else.

“Yeah. I have a strong rule against dirty fighting here. There’s no such thing as a clean fight, not in a fight club, I know that as much as anyone else. I do my best but sometimes… I’m truly sorry.”

Sam didn’t care. He crossed his arms, stared at the envelope still in the farmer’s hand. “I’m going to ask for another grand.”

“What?” the man asked, eyebrows raised, “You can’t be serious! Your brother signed a contract; I’m not liable for this. I’m not going to pay you a dollar more than was agreed on.”

He sucked on the ring in his lip. “That’s right. Deans signed the contract, I didn’t. And Dean isn’t buying the medical supplies for his fractured ribs, I am. So I’m asking for an extra grand and you’re going to put it in that envelope there. If you don’t that fight was your last. I’m not afraid to get your little fighting ring shut down and I’m sure the police would love to catch all of these guys. How many do you think already have criminal records?”

The farmer kept his eyes down. He was right. At least half of these people had gotten trouble with assault and all of them would be after him if they got arrested. They both knew that. He was getting somewhere. He leaned forward, put his hand on one corner of the desk that wasn’t covered up and looked down at farmer. It was time to sweeten the deal.

“It’s one grand from you.” He repeated, staying calm, intimidating. “Or two grand: one from your so-called reigning champion and another from his little friend.”

A smile came back onto the referees face. He wasn’t in danger here, not from him. He was already going to make those two pay, pay for the damages to his reputation as well as his sanity. Most fight clubs didn’t have a rule about staying above the waist, his did and he hated the fact that anyone would even think to challenge it.

He stood from his swivel chair, ignored it as it continued to lazily spin, not quite straight but limping just like its owner, before he stepped out of the office.

Sam smiled to herself, crossing one ankle behind the other, and waited in the dingy office. He could have been a con artist if life had gone a little differently. He’d be good at it.

It was a few minutes before the manager returned and He looked over the papers on the desk in the meantime. Most of them were bets and money counting but there were a few bills in there too, a couple of overdue notices. The fights were paying better than his harvest ever had and it still didn’t cover everything. He would have felt bad for him if Dean wasn’t in the backseat of the gremlin.

The farmer picked up the envelope when he came back into the office, stuffed a wad of bills into it before handing it to Sam again. This time He took it. He wasn’t looking at his though, kept his eyes down, and chewed the inside of his lip.

“They give you any hassle?” He asked. It was clear that they had.

“The kid had no money.” He explained, “All that’s from Brown. I hope that’s alright.”

It was but there was no reason that the farmer had to know that. He looked inside of the envelope, pulled out the bills and slowly counted them. He had no reason to doubt that either Brown or the referee would mislead him, but there was intimidation in counting, in taking your time, in showing that you don’t trust them.

He nodded when the amount came out right, actually a bit over, and closed the envelope back up.

“We’re good.” He nodded. The farmer breathed, finally.

He walked back the way He had come, the envelope tucked under his arm. He kept his head down until he was outside, and then he was looking up, trying to see the stars amongst the nearby lights. He couldn’t recognize any constellations, had never learned them, and wished that he had. He grumbled under his breath and continued towards the car.

He opened the driver’s door and slid in, tossing the manila envelope over to the passenger’s seat. Dean was still there, lying in the back seat, one arm over his face, the other still over his ribs. He wondered if he was asleep. He usually was, after a fight. The crash of adrenaline and an onslaught of pain always exhausted him.

Sam sighed and turned the engine, the keys jingling in his hand. The keys were louder than they ought to be, the engine growling and he looked back, made sure it didn’t wake Dean up. Everything was always louder when people are asleep.

He backed the car out of its space, slowly and carefully, making sure none of the crowd hadn’t snuck out for a quick smoke break and was standing right behind the car. There was no one though and the next line of cars was far away, he could back up without worry. He was able to drive up the dirt road and make his way to the freeway.

He kept the stereo off, didn’t whistle under his breath or speak. He didn’t want to wake Dean up.

He drove for what felt like an hour before he saw the signs for Centerville and Bounty along the side of the road, little tourist communities that held no interest to him. When he told people they were on a road trip, they always asked his what the most beautiful thing he’d seen was, what had impressed his the most. Here, they always asked if he’d seen the Great Salt Lake yet. He had. He never had an answer for them though. 

These beautiful places, these tourist traps, they all looked sad and forced to him. He couldn’t understand why someone would drive so far just to look at a lake or a quaint town full of dust and Mormons. Dean always said that he was too young, he couldn’t appreciate it yet.

He pulled into the parking lot of one of the touristy motels. They had spent that last of the money they’d gotten at the last fight on this place. It looked the same as any other motel, had nothing to make it unique other than a fine film of dust on the exterior.

Sam killed the engine but didn’t leave the car, not yet. He sat and sighed. He was tired. He was tired of all of these fights and Dean getting hurt. He was tired of the road and not having a real home and not going to school, not having friends. The only face he saw day to day was his brothers.

It had been three years of constant moving and he had never known why.

Sam wanted to go home.


	2. Sleeping in the Flowers

Chapter 2 

The sun was still down and the only light in the room came from the streetlight with its orange fluorescent directly outside the window. Dean groaned, sitting up, wiping at the sweat on his forehead. He couldn’t sleep.  
He looked down at Sam, sleeping comfortably, not a worry wrinkling his brow. He never seemed to have trouble sleeping. There was a pool of drool on the pillow beside his mouth and some of the saliva had dried white on his cheek. Dean couldn’t help but smile, looking at him. He was still so innocent in so many ways, still happy where it counted. He was glad that he could look over at him, not confined by money to the same bed.  
He rolled out of bed, as quietly as he could; keeping an eye on Sam so he could make sure he didn’t wake him. He slipped into the same clothes he’d been wearing all day, a light jacket – still too hot for the summer weather – a t-shirt, and a ratty pair of jeans. His clothes were more holes than fabric and Sam’s was only a little bit better. They both needed new clothes, but money was tight right now, it being a full month since his last fight. That one had almost run them dry, as they couldn’t move too much, had to stay at the motel as he healed from his fractured ribs.  
He grabbed his shoes, black converses with large holes along the soles, and snuck out the door, not bothering with putting them on until he was outside.  
The air was still warm, smelling of summer, flowers, asphalt, and dust. It was night but the smells and heat made him think it could still be day, just with a large blanket put over the tired Idaho town. He stood, just for a moment, and breathed in the air, standing beneath the street light outside of their room, letting the light halo him.  
He didn’t stay long, couldn’t. He had an appointment to keep. He’d done this before, countless times, but that didn’t mean that he liked it. He didn’t like leaving Sam alone and he liked lying to him even less. He knew how Sam felt about his fighting, how much he worried, so he had to keep it a secret. Not the big fights of course, he was always there for that, but the little ones like this? He didn’t have to know, he didn’t have to come along. He wouldn’t get hurt bad enough to need him.  
He snuck to the Impala, safe in its parking space, and climbed inside, silently. Sam was inside of a motel room, Dean was outside, there was no need to be so quiet, but it was habit in a way, paranoia in another. He shushed the car as the engine kicked on, as if he could make it as quiet as he was.  
He drove down Elba Almo road, slow and cautious, eyes darting around for other drivers and small animals that may dart in front of him. It was late at night, very late, but there were always other drivers, usually over tired and rarely paying attention. The road was smooth though, well paved, and it was cared for better than usual in a town this small. It wasn’t a pretty town, so small that it barely showed up on maps, but it was well cared for.  
It wasn’t the kind of town that Dean thought he could settle down in, but it was close. So far he’d liked Idaho a lot more than Utah, or Tennessee, or Kansas.  
He drove out to a small house, only a few miles away from the Almo Inn, and parked just in front of the garage. It was just off the main road with a long dirt driveway. The house was neat and clean, only one story but with fresh cream colored paint. The lawn was dying but there were still a few potted plants hanging from the edges of the roof and they were in full bloom. It was strange to see what was cared for and what was not, the brown grass and the pegged wooden fence that was rotting and sticking up like crooked teeth, combined with thriving azaleas and a warm glow coming from inside.  
Dean stood outside, stood beside his car, with his eyes closed for a moment. He breathed. He had never been all that confident, had always gotten nervous around strangers and crowds. He waited until he was ready before walking up and knocking on the wooden panel beside the door.  
There was a sound from inside and more lights came on. Dean stretched his back, trying to see through the small window set in the door. He couldn’t see who was coming until the door was open though and a small woman with a mousy bone and body structure looked up at him. He only opened the wooden door, leaving the screen closed between them. He had big brown eyes that still looked innocent somehow, even though he was at least in his thirties.  
“You here for Kubrick?” he asked. His voice was slow and warm.  
Dean nodded. He wasn’t a great talker, didn’t like to introduce himself to people. He wasn’t good at it. He wasn’t good at many things. Fighting and driving and looking out for Sam seemed to be all of his skill sets.  
The woman disappeared back into the house but he didn’t close the door behind him. The night wasn’t cold but the heat coming from the house felt nice all the same. There was a smell to it, potpourri and the mustiness of a grandmother’s house. This wasn’t the kind of place for a fight.  
He stood outside, waited patiently, he could add waiting to his list of skills, he supposed. He could hear some groaning inside, Kubrick waking up. He may have been on time for the appointment but being punctual wasn’t as much of a priority for everyone. He looked up at the stars and tried to count them, not noticing that his thumb had gone to his mouth and that he was chewing at the dried flesh around his nail.  
He was watching the stars but someone was watching him. He wasn’t stupid, he knew it wasn’t the stars watching him back, and the feeling was closer than that anyway. There was a shiver down his spine, sudden and cold, even in the warmth. He didn’t move, just looked around with his eyes, and tried to spot them. He didn’t want them to realize he knew they were there, whoever they were. He breathed, pulling the torn and hard skin from his teeth. It wasn’t Kubrick, he knew that. Fighters were tough, they liked a challenge, they didn’t like sneaking up on their opponents and taking them by surprise. They thought that was cowardly. Dean’s mind raced, went through the options of who it could have been. Sam was asleep, or so he seemed. If he had noticed, if he had followed the Impala, it would have been easy to make it here, even on foot. There weren’t that many roads. It could have been the police and that would have been worst of all. Dean had a clean record but he was here to commit assault, even if it was consensual.  
He spun on his heel, hoping to catch sight of the spy. There was no way he would let them get the better of him.  
There was no one there though. He was alone on the lawn, hands clenching at his sides and ready to fight the empty space around him. There was no sign of anyone other than a faint smell of cigarette ash and allspice. A few blue petals fluttered on the dead grass and they surprised him, not expecting to see them move in the light breeze.  
He felt foolish, spooking himself so badly. It was obviously just his imagination.

 

Sam sat up in bed, still fully clothed. He had pajamas; of course he did, but not tonight. Tonight was his night alone and being dressed for sleep may actually make him want to. He couldn’t, not that night.  
He looked over at Dean’s bed, the sheets and blankets more on the ground than not and the pillows all spread out, one down by where his hips would be, one lower to go between his knees. He was too young for so many stiff joints and aching muscles, but he was hard on his body.  
He knew that he was going out, it had happened so many times before. Dean thought that he was naïve about it, somehow didn’t know that there were more fights going on than he chaperoned, but he knew. It’s hard to hide the bruises when you live in close quarters.  
That was fine. He was allowed his secrets. As long as Sam was allowed his own.  
He grabbed the old black messenger bag that was thrown in with the rest of the luggage they’d brought in from the Impala, mostly clothes and toiletries. This one held his laptop though and, even though it was old and worn, bought at a thrift store that should have thrown it away; he doubted he would ever get rid of it.  
He set it on the bed before him and pulled out the laptop, a refurbished one that overheated quickly. Dean had tried to talk him into getting a better one, one that hadn’t been preused, but he wouldn’t hear it. He knew that money was tight, that it was always tight, and he didn’t want to be a burden.  
He flipped it open and turned it on, slowly confronted by its bright, almost blue, light and whirring motor. He doubted that the motel had good wireless but he had to try it anyway, he didn’t know when he’d next get an opportunity like this.  
Usually this opportunity was used a little bit differently, his own hands travelling down his slim body, touching and prodding at appendages and gaps. His member twitched at the thought, of the habit, and his mind turned to his brother. Dean wouldn’t be gone long. He couldn’t indulge himself. All he could do was work.  
He almost fell asleep while waiting for google to load and when it did he forced himself awake and started typing. “John Winchester” was his search but it was far too broad. He mostly got results for an anesthesiologist on one side of the country and gun manufacturers on the other. None were what he was looking for and the whole search wasted a good ten minutes.  
He added “Kansas” to the search; that should have narrowed it down. He waited, rolled his eyes, considered sleeping, and when the site had finally loaded his new parameters it had been narrowed down by around six million. There were still a lot of hits on that gun but the anesthesiologist was gone, replaced with ancestry sites and facebook accounts. He’d have to narrow it down further.  
Usually he’d have music playing, but not when he was waiting, ears pricked, listening for the sound of the Impala coming into the parking lot. He even had the computer muted so that the ads that popped up wouldn’t distract him, wouldn’t cover up the noise.  
It was only a half hour before he heard it, a car driving into the parking lot. It wasn’t long enough, no fight was that short. Dean must have lost, and in a bad way.  
There wasn’t enough time for Sam to put the computer back in his bag; there was no way that he could hide it properly. He put it to sleep, slammed the lid closed and hoped that the blinking lights would shut off before Dean came in. Regardless he wrapped his arms around the machine, shoved it against his chest, and covered both him and it in his cold blankets. With eyes closed and mouth open, he hoped that he would pass as asleep and Dean wouldn’t notice anything was awry.  
The sound of the car was gone, the engine turned off. Everything was silent, not even frogs in the distance, no flies buzzing in the room. Sam could only hear himself breathe, his ears were straining as he listened, tried to hear the jangle of keys, of the car door slamming shut, of the lock turning.  
There was nothing.  
The only reason Dean would have been back so early is if he had lost and lost badly. Maybe he was out there, still in the car. Sam didn’t know if his ribs were completely healed from the fight a month before, he didn’t seem to be affected by it at all after they’d been bound. Maybe he couldn’t walk, a broken leg or something. Maybe he couldn’t breathe, a broken rib piercing his lung.  
He leapt out of bed; nerves alight, and rushed towards the window. He didn’t bother to move the laptop now, if Dean was out there and he was hurt, seeing a laptop was the least of his concerns. He just had to make sure he was alright. He pulled open the curtains and looked down, scanned the parking lot.  
There weren’t many cars in the parking lot. Only two other guests were there and then it was the staff who parked outside. There was no Impala out there, no wounded man trying to make his way to bed.  
Instead there was a car that should never have been there, a sleek navy Rolls Royce. The hood was down, the cream interior plush and inviting. Sam wasn’t great at identifying cars but a Royce was a Royce and it was hard to confuse it for anything else.  
This wasn’t the right place for a car that nice. This was a seedy little inn in the middle of nowhere. There was a town but Sam doubted they did anything more than sleep with their cousins, cook meth, and farm. He would never leave something like that sitting around. Someone may get two brain cells together and try to steal it.  
They weren’t local, they couldn’t have been.  
Sam thought he saw the owner, just for a moment: a tall dark man, wearing sunglasses even though it couldn’t have been earlier than three in the morning, face still and emotions scarce. There was no one in the car though, not sitting in the driver’s seat, not anywhere. He must have been more tired than he’d thought.  
He hadn’t heard the door close though, or any of the doors of the inn open, hadn’t heard a single footstep besides his own. Either he was imagining things or there was something strange going on.  
He didn’t grab his jacket or shoes, just moved in his slept in jeans and t-shirt. This wouldn’t take long and bare feet were fine in a small town like this. It was the bigger cities where he had to watch out for broken glass and strewn gravel.  
He grabbed one of the electronic keys and stepped out, breathing in the warm air. He stepped towards the edge of the second story stairwell, looked down. He could see into the convertible easily. There was no one there, just like he’d thought. No strange man with thick black sunglasses or oversized trench coat. The owner probably wasn’t as young as he’d thought he’d seen anyway. A car like that, especially a convertible, that had to be owned by an older man in a midlife crises.  
He moved down the stairs, a hand out and hovering over the railing. He drew closer to the car, smelling the cigarette ash and allspice that hung around it. The car was brand new; the spirit of ecstasy shining like it had just been cast. There was no license plate yet, just the name of the dealer.  
It was a beautiful car. Dean would have loved it. Everything Sam knew about classic vehicles was from him. Looking inside, he couldn’t figure out where the smell came from. It smelled like ash, not smoke, yet the ashtrays were closed and they didn’t look to have been opened. There was no sign of smoking, no discoloration on the pale leather, no heaps of gray.  
The seats themselves had no blemishes, no weight on them. They looked as if they had never even been touched.  
The only sign that the vehicle wasn’t straight off the dealership lot was the flood of blue flower petals spilling over the backseat. There were full flowers in there, but the petals were falling off of them and they crashed onto the floor, piled in the corners. Sam knew little about cars but he knew even less about flowers. Still, he knew he’d never seen these before. He couldn’t even describe them if he’d wanted to, other than to say that they were wholly blue.  
He shivered, through the warmth of the summer heat and all of his clothes. He was hot and cold at the same time, sweating through his clothes. The smell of the car made him feel wary, put a cold chill in his chest.  
He felt choked up, nauseous. It was nothing, it was just a car with petals in it, but it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel good.  
He bit at the ring in his lip, turned on his heel, and walked back up those stairs. Now, his hand was on the railing, holding it tight. The door was locked, automatic, but Sam had the key, had grabbed it before he left. He slid it through the reader and went inside.  
He knew that the door was locked behind him, that nothing could get in without one, but that didn’t matter. He dragged a chair over, let it rest against the door and keep the knob from turning. Dean was still out there but he didn’t want to risk anyone coming in.  
There was something wrong about that car. 

Kubrick looked as much like a man as it was possible for an ox too, his shoulders broad and his head hanging low between them, thick brows and strong lower lip skewing his features. He fought like an ox too, wide movements, slow steps, punches that were deliberate but not aimed. He was strong and had good momentum, let that carry him. Dean recognized his fighting stance, his style. He was used to fighting larger people, groups of them at times.  
Dean was a challenge for him, he was for most. He was small and fast, but only when he wanted to be. He didn’t have to dodge as much as usual, Kubrick wasn’t aiming, just taking it on faith that Dean would be where his fist would be. If he was three times his size they would have all landed. Sometimes he would just have to take a step back to get out of the way of the punches. He was making Kubrick angry and angry people are stupid people.  
The fight was short, as Dean expected. There were no rules and only one round, with Kubrick’s mousy wife as the referee. Dean felt bad for not catching his name. He did not referee on Kubrick’s side though, did not hold him above the stranger in his home, and all of the calls were accurate. He did squeak and worry when Dean finally attacked, stepped in between Kubrick and his flailing fists, and delivered a few fast punches to his delicate ribs.  
Kubrick was a laborer, a lumber worker, paying bills paycheck to paycheck. He couldn’t risk broken bones or days off. He wouldn’t have made the fight last any longer than it had to but still, it was his wife who stopped the fight with a surprised sound. Sure they couldn’t afford it, had hoped to win to pay off their debts, but a deal was a deal. He gave Dean his reward, staying quiet, not looking at his large husband.  
It wasn’t much, only five hundred dollars, but it was all either of them could sacrifice to pay the other. From the look on their faces it wasn’t money they could afford to lose.  
Dean smiled, left cheerfully with the ill gained money in his back pocket. He ignored the angry glares coming from Kubrick as well as the glares coming from his wife to him. Dean didn’t have to worry about them, other than monetarily it wasn’t his business. He doubted that any of Kubrick’s violence was directed towards him, he was in charge and things were good for them both when he was winning, at least.  
The night was colder than it had been before and the breeze was picking up. Dean thought he maybe should have brought a jacket of some kind. With the sweat on his skin it was starting to get cold. He changed his mind when he climbed into the Impala though, the heat trapped inside of it setting into his skin and enveloping him like a great hug.  
He put the key into the ignition. He closed his eyes. He breathed out of his nose. He prayed to a god that he hadn’t believed in since he was eight years old.  
The car roared into life and he opened his mouth and his eyes, breathing regularly. He hadn’t told Sam about the odometer, how many miles they had gone past the required oil change and engine check. He had unplugged the check engine light. He was good with cars, had fixed the Impala tens of times but it needed a real mechanic now, not someone who had only learned from trial, error, and books for dummies.  
It was only a few minutes back to the motel and the ride was warm and only a little bit bumpy. He pulled into the parking lot, ready to put the black vehicle into the space he had started in. He couldn’t though, not when another car had taken it. He stared at it, the navy convertible Rolls Royce. They could have parked anywhere; most of the spaces were empty. Why did they have to take his spot? There was no way Sam would believe he had spent the whole night there in the room with him, fast asleep.  
He pulled up beside it, turned off his headlights. The car was brand new, not a ding or scratch, not even a loose piece of gravel in the treads of the tire. It was a bit new for his liking but it was beautiful all the same, all smooth lines and flush interior. He’d never looked at another car like that, never thought that the Impala might not be enough for him.  
There was a trail in front of the car, a series of flowers and petals, all bright blue, leading from the car to the door of one of the rooms on the bottom floor. Perhaps the car was a wedding gift and the petals were supposed to be romantic. Dean didn’t think so though. Why would someone who could afford a car like that come to a place like this? And those flowers, they made him feel strange, followed, hunted.  
They were the same petals he’d seen on Kubrick’s lawn, just before the fight.  
He looked around himself, paranoid. He knew how he looked. But there had to be more going on than just some honeymoon, there had to be a reason he’d seen these petals before. His mind was reeling, thinking of private investigators, police, stalkers, anyone who would be interested in finding him and Sam. He’d worried so much about that when they’d first left home, was so afraid all of the time that someone would come for him and his brother, but it had proven itself to be false over time.  
He hurried up the stairs, feet soft to keep quiet. There was no way they wouldn’t have heard the Impala chug up the drive but that didn’t mean he wanted whoever was ghosting him to hear more than that.  
He looked around once more before he fished out the electronic key in his pocket. There were no lights on, no eyes peering at him in the darkness. Perhaps there was nothing to worry about after all. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, being followed.  
He slid the electronic key through the swiper of his shared room. The little light turned green and he turned the doorknob.  
The door didn’t open.  
Dean’s breath stopped in his throat as the muscles throughout his abdomen clenched. Something had happened. There hadn’t been anything that could have blocked the door before but now he couldn’t even make it budge.  
Something had happened and he should have been there and Sam was in danger and he had thought this town was safe how could he have been so stupid? He pushed against the door, tried to force his way inside. He had to get in. There was no reason someone would want to steal from them, they didn’t have anything, but if they were being hunted, if someone wanted them, if someone wanted Sam, that was all that he could think of.  
All he could see was a mess, broken lamp, sheets torn from the bed. There would have been a struggle, he knew that, but if Sam had struggled then he would have gotten hurt. The attacker wouldn’t have had a choice.  
He pushed and there was a sound, something hard and wood being dragged over the carpet. That was him; he knew it, getting the door to budge a few measly inches. Who was downstairs with the flower petals? Perhaps they were still in the room. He couldn’t tell, it was too dark in there to see, the light blocked by the door.  
There was the sound of footsteps and Dean took a step back, not sure of what to do. The pushing had been loud and if he’d been right, if there was someone still inside, they’d be on him shortly.  
But there were big hazel eyes staring up at him through the inches of open door. Whatever was blocking the way was suddenly scooted away and Sam was standing there, fully dressed, looking tired and troubled. He looked like he wanted to reach out and grab him, hold him tight, like he used too when he was scared at night, when he could hear noises in that old house. He said that he could hear screaming back then, could hear a secret that was locked away. Dean hadn’t seen him this scared since then.  
He threw the door open and grabbed him by the collar, dragging him into the door and quietly closing the door behind him. He replaced the chair to where it had been, just under the knob.  
“Did you see?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, “The car? Did you?”  
Dean looked around the room. It looked like the chair was the only thing that had been moved. He hadn’t needed to worry. It was just Sam all along. He was a good kid, smart.  
“Yeah.” He nodded. He moved over to the window, shifted the curtains. He didn’t want anyone to see what he was doing, so easily illuminated by the streetlight right outside, but he had to get another peak at that luxury car. It was still sitting there, supposedly innocent. “It’s still there. Did you see the owner?”  
Sam took a step back, trying not to let the light from outside touch him. “I thought I did, but I didn’t. I couldn’t have. It must have been a reflection or something. I went down there, checked it out, but there was no one. That thing, it gives me the creeps. There’s something familiar about it but I can’t remember, I can’t put my finger on it.”  
Dean collapsed onto the side of Sam’s messy bed. He felt different than he had outside, no longer vulnerable and panicky. Now he just felt hollow, like he wasn’t completely there. His brain felt heavy as his adrenaline melted away and his temples throbbed.  
“You’re right.” He thought out loud, “Something about that car, I feel like I’ve been around it before. Those flowers and that smell, I know I’ve been around it before, but I can’t remember. I’ve never seen flowers like that before. Still, there’s this weird feeling about it.”  
Sam didn’t say anything, not for a while. He didn’t touch Dean and for that he was glad. He didn’t know how he would have reacted to being touched right then.  
A thought came to his mind and it was out before he could stop it. “It feels like Dad is here.”  
Nothing. Sam’s head was down. Dean didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to see his face. Sam didn’t know. He still idolized their father, still thought that he could walk on water. Dean knew the truth, was older, had sheltered his brother from everything that he could. That’s why he’d left and taken Sam with him. He knew that he couldn’t leave him alone with Dad.  
He’d never said anything, never told him what all had happened. He’d never believe him, would never understand why he had to steal him.  
“I’m sorry.” He stood up, ignoring how the bed bounced with the loss of his weight. He shouldn’t have said that. “We’ll leave. First thing in the morning.”  
Sam wouldn’t look at him; he knew that without turning around and seeing the look on his face. He was angry about the comment, still wanted to stand up for their father. Dean hadn’t lied though. That panicked, terrible feeling, the idea of being watched at all times, it felt like being home again. It felt like every dreadful day that he’d been in that house for those thirteen long years. He had forgotten just how bad it was.  
Morning, real, proper morning, was still far away and it wasn’t good enough to wait for. Slowly and quietly, Sam began to plead for them to go immediately. He was still scared. When Dean took the chance to look at him he was pale and distant, flighty, jumping at every sound. Dean agreed, of course he did, anything for Sam.  
They packed quickly and fully, not saying a word, and moved back into their car. It was home, the only real home that Dean knew, although Sam wouldn’t call it that. He would say it was just a car. Still, they slept in it just as often as they slept in real beds and it was the only sanctuary Dean had ever known.  
They drove east, no real destination in mind. They were just making distance. Dean kept glancing away from the road, not so worried about the Impala breaking down as he was about his brother. He was leaning his cheek on his fingers, his elbow on the windowsill. His attention was fixed on the black scenery speeding past. He wasn’t looking at anything, was just looking.  
Dean scooted forward until he was able to get his butt off of the seat, keeping one hand on the wheel as he dug out his wallet. He pulled out a bill, the largest of the ones he’d made that night, and tapped Sam on the shoulder with it. He didn’t respond at first and Dean almost called his name, but he turned and looked at the crisp bill.  
He took it from him, held it up as if he could see the light through it. There was no light though.  
“What’s this for?” he asked. He sounded groggy, close to sleep.  
“I was in a fight.” Dean sighed. “I’m not going to pretend that I wasn’t. I know you know.” Sam made a sound, tried to interrupt, say something in his defense. He continued though, not letting him. “You were awake the whole time, I know that. You didn’t stop me, but that’s your problem, not mine. I know you don’t like it when I go off alone to a fight but we were running low on the green stuff. There’s your cut, like always.”  
The hundred was one of the new ones, with the bright colors and the feel of fresh monopoly cash. Sam was staring at it, studying it like he’d never seen one before. They’d gotten a whole manila envelope of them before; there was no reason for him to be so concerned now. He looked like he was thinking though, trying to form the right words.  
Dean hadn’t lied, not one bit. He’d always given him a cut. He didn’t think it was enough but Sam always seemed happy with it. That was how he’d bought his laptop, how he kept from wearing clothes with too many holes in them, had everything he could possibly need.  
Dean wasn’t like that, couldn’t be. Money didn’t buy him happiness, only the road and his little brother did. He didn’t need to buy clothes, wore his until they were about to fall off. He didn’t pay for haircuts and now his hair was long enough to be brushed behind his ears, was always messy and unkempt.  
“How much of a cut do you get?” Sam asked and that was the first time he had. He was pulling out his wallet and sliding the fresh bill inside.  
“Hm?” Dean’s attention was back on the road, he hadn’t been listening.  
“I mean,” he clarified, “you always give me a hundred dollar bill, regardless of how much you made in a fight. Most of what’s left goes to the car, food, us getting by. I’m curious, how much of a cut do you take?”  
Dean shrugged and wiped back some of his dirty blond hair. He’d have to cut his hair soon, otherwise he’d wind up like Sam. “About fifteen dollars I think. I don’t need as much as you do. I’m happy with what I’ve got.”  
Dean glanced over. Sam’s face had fallen, his longer darker hair covering his face. He looked sad and tired and like he had a stomach ache. He knew that look, had felt it enough times over the years. He felt guilty, probably thought he was wasting what Dean had given him.  
He had wanted him to have it though; Sam being happy made him happy.  
“And what have you got?” he squeaked.  
Dean smiled at that, looking out over the road. “I have a great car, which, I’ll be honest, needs to be serviced. I’ve got all of the open roads of America before me. And I have my little brother, who can’t seem to understand what a good thing is when it’s staring him straight in the face.”  
And there it was, the reason that Dean did anything. Sam smiled.  
Sam was asleep within the next twenty miles, his face smashed against the window and his hands limp in his lap but Dean had that to keep him going through his own exhaustion – his smile.


	3. Tongue-Tied

Chapter 3

The Impala was off kilter, a little bit crooked, and one flat tire slapped the road with each revolution. They had been driving on the shoulder, trying to stay out of the way of the faster cars that could go past, and they had finally made it into the parking lot of a gas station.  
Dean didn’t even bother to park well; he just stopped the car the moment they got close to a spot. He smacked the steering wheel, a motion he’d done a few times already, and made a high pitched whining sound in his throat. He was frustrated. Sam could only sit there and watch as the anger rose in him and left his mouth like steam. There was nothing he could do. He knew how much Dean loved this car.  
Dean was swearing under his breath when he opened the door, pushed his way out. Sam stayed behind, let him head to the little convenience store before he bothered to stretch his legs. The joints popped and his muscles sang as he put wait on them. They had been in the car almost all day and his legs needed to move. All of him needed to.  
He didn’t bat an eyelid when the red Royce pulled into the gas station, parked on the opposite side of the lot. He just stretched, hands clasped behind him as he pulled his elbows straight, arching him back. He had been so afraid of that car before, now it was a common sight. They’d seen it a good many times over the past few months, sometimes already in a space before they arrived, but usually pulling in just behind them. It still looked brand new, still didn’t have a real license plate on it or a single scratch. Neither one of them had ever seen the driver.  
By now they knew for certain that it wasn’t a police officer or a detective following them. They would have been arrested; Dean would have, at least, if they had been. They may have been a stalker. Sam found it easiest not to think about it.  
He instead made his way into the convenience store, looking for his brother. Dean was there, amongst the shelves, looking at the junk in its brightly colored packages, as he made his way to the counter. There was a woman sitting behind trays of lighters and energy drinks, bored in demeanor and plain in appearance, but Sam recognized the smile he flashed him as the same he usually used when trying to be charming. Paired with his worn through clothes and lack of hygiene, the smell that came from living in a car for a couple of days, the look did not go through. Instead the woman looked a bit afraid of him, once she did notice him, and a hand slid under the counter.  
Sam had heard of the buttons stashed beneath counters, usually the ones at banks, and almost chuckled to himself. If anyone was going to rob this little place, it wasn’t going to be Dean. Still, he moved forward, got closer to his brother incase anything happened.  
Dean’s eyes glanced down, saw that she was ready to call in an emergency and stopped, a good few feet away from the counter. “Hi.” He said, the charm in his smile coming through in his voice, “I got a flat tire on the highway back there. Is there somewhere in town where I can get it serviced?”  
He was angry and frustrated; Sam had seen all of that outside. Here though he was calm, had swallowed all of that aggression.  
The woman, Carmen, by her nametag, smiled a little bit, breathing as her finger left the stashed away button. Her shoulders slumped as she relaxed.  
“We don’t have any here in Gardner.” she apologized, turning in her seat to grab one of the foldout maps that were stacked before the window. She opened it up and laid it flat on the counter, looking for their location and then tracing the road going north. “You go follow 95, up through Hallowell, and up through Augusta. Up there there’s a VIP Parts, a Strathom Tire, and uh, whatsitcalled, two Expert Tires I think. Sorry for the inconvenience. It’s a small town; we don’t have a lot here.”  
Dean brushed it off although Sam, still behind him, could see the tension in his shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. Thank you, for your help. And, uh, do you have a bathroom I could borrow? My brother and I have been on the road for far too long.”  
Carmen pointed to the back of the store, where a little blue sign hung from the ceiling. It said ‘Bathrooms for paying customers only.’ Again, he thanked her and as he passed by Sam he patted him on the shoulder, placing a bit too much weight on him.  
Sam waited for Dean as best he could, looking through magazines and walking the aisles. After finding out the cut ratio of what Dean made he had been better with his money, using as little of it as he could. He went ahead and grabbed some chocolates though, off brand m&ms and a bar that was more full of nuts than chocolate. A couple of bottles of water and juice were added to his arms and he went back to the register.  
Dean was taking a while, probably cleaning himself in the sink and Sam thought that he should do that too. He wasn’t a clean freak but he liked to look good, liked to look clean. People treated him differently when he was dirty.  
He took a look in the security mirror, brushing his hair, which was starting to get long. He was tanned from the sun coming through the window of the car, darker on one side than the other. He was attractive and he knew it; knew Carmen thought so too as she was watching him primp from the counter.  
“You want some help with that?” Carmen asked, and Sam smiled awkwardly.  
“Does it look bad?” he asked, grimacing.  
“It doesn’t look great.” Carmen smiled, tried to make the blow less painful. “How long have you been driving?”  
There was a long answer and a short answer to that but Sam chose the shorter. “A couple of days, four, I think.”  
“Oh you poor babe.” Carmen stood and moved the little hinged piece of the counter up, let Sam back with her, “Come on then. Let’s see what we can do.”  
There was a second swivel chair back there, all foamy fabric backing. It was more plush than the leather seats of the car. Sam sat beside her and let her get to work.  
His face and neck were washed with sanitation wipes and he could smell the alcohol in them. Carmen cooed and talked, but none of it was important, it was all just words. She said that after this Sam would have no trouble with the girls but he’d never had any trouble with them before. He was too young for women to be taking notice of him but wherever he went, if there were girls, their eyes were on him. He didn’t know if he liked that or not.  
Carmen was having fun, no longer as bored as when they had come in and for that Sam was grateful. That was better than the makeover he was receiving anyway.  
The bell rang as the door opened and a group of gangly teens came in, all wearing puffy jackets that it was too hot for. They were all a part of the same gang, probably their own gang, the only one in town. They all had shaved heads, unlit cigarettes hanging from their lips, and sagging pants. They looked “cool”. Sam thought they looked like morons.  
One of them wiped at his nose, grabbed his crotch and whispered to the others. They all laughed at what he said. Then he was heading to the counter with a goofy smile and a strange wiggle to his hips.  
“Hello ladies!” he smiled, leaning over the counter. The smile on Carmen’s face was gone as the kid drew close to them. He was the shortest of the group, acne covering his rat-like features.  
Sam raised his head, looked up at him through squinted eyes. The only man he’d been around in the past four years for any length of time was Dean. He didn’t know if this was normal behavior.  
“You aint from around here, are you?” Snarled one of his friends. He was lanky and dark, black eyes peering from beneath pencil thin eyebrows. He was wearing a t-shirt with a pit bull on it and the hem of the shirt almost reached his knees. He looked a lot like the animal on the shirt.  
“Uh, no.” Sam admitted, “I’m from Kansas. I’m just on a road trip with my brother.”  
“Yeah, your brother.” One of the guys in the back said, elbowing the last of them. “Yeah right. You suck his dick, pretty boy?”  
Sam froze, joints stiff. He may not have known how boys acted, but surely this wasn’t right. He wasn’t gay, not to his knowledge anyway, and he didn’t like their tone. It was a bit too close to threatening.  
“What?” he squeaked.  
“Just ignore them, honey.” Carmen whispered, patting his hair.  
“You came here in a nasty ass vehicle, with a nasty ass guy, looking like you just stepped out of a Hollywood movie. Long hair and pretty face like that? Gotta be a gay hooker. How much he pay you?” Pitbull asked, sticking his chin violently up into the air.  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sam confessed. He was getting small though, shoulder hiking up around his ears.  
He didn’t know what to do, how to get them to stop. They didn’t seem like they wanted to, smiling so much.  
“How much?” Acne asked.  
“What?”  
“How much for all of us to do ya?” he clarified.  
He didn’t know whether to laugh at that or be disgusted. He didn’t think he could do either. All he could feel inside was cold, small, and like a tool. That’s how they saw him. Not as a person but as a thing. They weren’t even interested in him, not really, it was obvious that none of these guys were at least openly gay. This was just to humiliate him, to have fun. He was just there for them to have a laugh.  
He stood up, yanking his hair out of the comb that Carmen was still holding, although the woman had gone still. He wanted to leave, wanted to do something. But he knew that the only thing that he could do, the only thing that would get through to these guys, was if he used violence. He could do it, had seen Dean beat people up, had seen fight after fight. He knew the moves.  
There was a shine though and he looked down, saw the switchblade in the quiet one’s hand. There was pearl inlaid into the handle, the shape of wings.  
Sam’s arms prickled as the hair stood on edge, goose bumps showing his fear. His mouth was frozen, he couldn’t think of anything to say. He wanted to fight but if they had a blade, well, he’d never been in a fight before. He couldn’t do anything.  
Then he saw him and he almost smiled. He tried not to, kept him eyes away from him, kept them on the boys who were crowding him.  
Pitbull turned, only once a hand was on his shoulder. His eyes widened as five boney and scarred knuckles, all wrapped tight, connected with his jaw. He fell to the ground, crying out, sounding like a child, as he clutched his jaw as if the bone had actually broken.  
Dean shook his hand, trying to shake away the pain in his knuckles that came with a closed fist and no binding. Sam stared at him, glad to see his brother but also unnerved. How long had he been there, just watching? How much of his humiliation had he been there for?  
Pitbull retreated, still clutching his jaw, tears streaming down his cheeks. He must have nodded or given some kind of signal, because the one with the switchblade came forward, blade out, ready to go. He was small, and boxy, and Sam couldn’t tell if he was Asian or Hispanic, possibly a combination of the two.  
Dean didn’t fight him, just like how he didn’t fight people in his planned fights. He dodged and shifted, keeping his fists down and his vulnerable chest exposed. He let the kid tire himself out. The knife connected though, his dodge not quite big enough to evade, and the blade, perhaps never used, cut a long red stripe on his cheek. It was sharp and clean, Dean didn’t show any sign of feeling it, not yet, and he grinned, letting the blood drip off of his stretched lip.  
He grabbed the boy’s wrist, pulling the blade past him and placing his other hand gently beneath his elbow. It was a simple motion, pushing up just slightly, but there was a loud pop and the boy, previously silent, was screaming. He clutched his broken arm to himself, staring at it, not ceasing in his screaming.  
Their leader, the acne riddled one, glared at Dean, hands in fists. He stepped away from the counter, walked towards him. Dean was still smiling, looking manic.  
He grabbed his usually silent friend though, led him away. The four of them darted out of the convenience store, the wounded still wincing in pain and making more noise than was really necessary.  
Dean laughed at them, acting so tough and really not being so tough after all.  
He turned back to the two onlookers, who were not laughing with him. Sam’s eyes were on the ground; Carmen’s darting from him to Dean to the door. He approached them, putting a hand on the counter.  
“Okay.” He said, “Everything’s alright. They’re gone. What is it?”  
“Thank you.” Carmen mouthed but him attention was on Sam and she was being so soft, so kind. Sam wanted to lean on her, feel like more than just someone to be ogled and saved.  
“Sam?” Dean asked.  
Sam didn’t want to say anything. He still felt like his mouth was full of cotton. “I’m fine.”  
“Bullshit.” Dean opened the hatch in the counter and stepped back to where they were. He was clean now, as clean as he could get in a bathroom sink. He was more tanned than Sam was, paler on the side that remained in the shadows when he drove. Without the dirt and grime on him it was easier to see the hairline scars on his face, the freckles on his cheeks, and with the hair pushed back behind his ears it was easier to see the thick, gnarly scar around his throat. “What did I miss?”  
“They were just little shits.” Carmen answered for him, “They come in every couple of days, ask to see my breasts, make a lot of really nasty comments. I’m used to it but I guess your brother isn’t.”  
“What did they say?”  
“It was nothing.” Sam shrugged, “They just thought I was a gay whore. They thought you were my client.”  
“That’s it?” Dean clasped a hand on his shoulder. He jumped at that and Dean removed it, finally seeing how badly he was shaken by the encounter. He took a step back, winced as he finally started to feel the cut in his face. “I’ll meet you in the car, okay? You take your time.”  
Sam nodded, glad for the time alone. Not really alone, but not with Dean. Carmen was all of the company he could stand to be around just now. The two of them stayed silent until Dean was out of the store.  
“Hey.” Carmen turned Sam so that he was facing her. “Hey, it’s not that bad, okay? This sort of thing happens every day.”  
“Why?” Sam asked. “I never did anything to them.  
Carmen pushed some of Sam’s bangs from his face. “It had nothing to do with you or what you did. You didn’t do anything to antagonize them. People are assholes and they like to see a reaction.”  
She cupped Sam’s chin between two fingers, tilted his face so that they were making eye contact. “Here’s what you do. You ignore it. You keep walking with your head raised. They’ll call you terrible things but you ignore it. If they try anything after that, if they follow you, go somewhere public, with a lot of people. Anything happens? You’ll have witnesses.”  
Sam didn’t want that though. He didn’t want witnesses and others to come in to rescue him like Dean just had. He wanted to be able to take care of it.  
“Thank you.” Was all he said instead and he moved to purchase the things he had picked up before. Dean was waiting for him. They’d be heading out soon. As little as he wanted to be around anyone at the moment he didn’t want to keep him waiting.  
Carmen just waved him off, let him take his snacks and water for free, and wished him luck as he moved out of the store.  
Sam clutched his arm, held the bag in front of him. He felt so vulnerable in the warm afternoon sun, in the wide expanse of the parking lot.  
Dean was sitting in the car, head forward, not looking at anything. He didn’t say a word when Sam climbed into the car beside him. He had a first aid kit in his lap and gauze on his face, taped on so it could soak up the blood.  
He didn’t say a word as he started up the car, as they slowly moved out of the lot, the blown tire flapping methodically against the asphalt.  
Sam kept his eyes out the window, reliving what had just happened over and over again in his mind, trying to think of some way that he could have handled it better. What could he have done to keep their attention off of him? What could he have done to defend himself? He didn’t know how to fight, didn’t know what to do in most social situations. He was stuck being a damsel in distress.  
They headed north and Sam watched as the few buildings fell behind them, the hand planted trees looking sad and unhealthy. They left the town and drove past the fields of farm land, all golden gray. A few birds were circling and diving down into the plants, catching the rodents that rummaged through them. Sam had felt like that, the mouse, just minding him own business, when those predators had swooped down on him.  
It wasn’t even a half hour until they were in Augusta and Sam distracted himself from his thoughts by looking from building to building, sign to sign, trying to spot the tire service station. He still wasn’t talking, only looking.  
He could feel Dean’s eyes on him, more on him than on the road or the signs. He knew that Dean could always protect him, even without him expressly saying so. Sam had never, in the four years they’d been traveling; worried that Dean would let him down or allow him to get hurt. What had happened was just proof of that.  
“There!” he called out, the first word he’d said since getting into the car. He threw out his arm, pointed at The Expert Tire before they passed it. Dean jumped at first, not expecting his ejaculation and turned sharply into the lane beside them, too fast. They made it into the parking lot of the service station and found a spot easily, just next to the door.  
The building was dingy and the sign was missing some of its lights, but they weren’t necessary this late in the day. A few people, young and strong in their cleanly pressed uniforms, darted out, white teeth gleaming. They didn’t get a lot of work and it was obvious, their excitement in having something to do as clear as the paperwork they handed to Dean.  
There was hardly any of it and it took only a few minutes for him to fill it out. Then the poor Impala was taken away from him so quickly that he didn’t even catch the name of the guy who had taken it. The pair was left watching the group drive the car with its still flapping tire, into the garage. It was highly organized and clean in there, making them both feel like the car was in good hands, even though it had all happened so fast that Dean didn’t know what exactly he had signed off on.  
Dean started walking, Sam looking after him. He watched how he walked, so much confidence, his arms at his sides and his chest out to make himself seem larger. He was shorter than Sam but he looked larger, even though he had never been able to pack on the muscle like Sam could. He walked after him, a little bit slower, keeping him head down. He looked pathetic and he knew it, but it was also a way of keeping himself safe.  
It was a larger city than the ones they’d been in most recently, the roads busier and more people on the sidewalks. They had been here before, a long time ago, having stopped when they were still new to their life on the road. That didn’t make it familiar though and Sam had never had any interest I learning the roads. Dean knew it a little bit better, but still not well. In the Impala they had been protected and separate from the city. Now, walking in the open, they were drawn into it, became a part of it. Every sound, smell, and color was more vibrant, more real, when they were amongst it.  
They found themselves outside of the town soon enough though, walking the roads with the least amount of people, towards the view without buildings. Sam didn’t know why Dean was leading him out of the town, what he was hoping to do away from the people. They walked until they were back to the brown fields and the dry grass.  
“We should have about an hour before the car’s ready.” Dean said but that didn’t explain anything. “Show me your fists.”  
“What?” Sam asked. He’d never asked him to do that before. Did he want to fight?  
“You need to learn how to defend yourself.” Dean explained, looking up at him. “Those guys, they were awful. But what was worse was the fact that you didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to take care of yourself. I want to protect you; I want to make sure that you’re safe. Sometimes though, having me save you isn’t what’s going to help you. Sometimes you’re going to have to stand up for yourself to get your message across. Now show me your fists.”  
He did and Dean inspected them, moving his thumb with gentle hands, fingers crooked and curved from past breaks, putting his fingers in the right spots. It felt strange but Sam liked the touch, wanted more of it. Dean used to be very touchable, always draping an arm around his shoulders and ruffling his hair. Now that they were older the touches weren’t as often and Sam found himself missing them.  
Dean held out his open palms, instructed Sam to hit them. His punches were weak at first, poorly aimed and slow, but Dean kept making him go, had him throw punches until his fingers stung from the contact, his aim true and each and every one landing home. Dean showed him how to take knives from people, using his fist as the blade. He got hit a few times, but never hard, and he was sweating, smiling through it. It was hard work but he was glad.  
He knew that Dean could protect him, but now he wouldn’t need to. They were out there in the field, practicing posture and glares, throws and kicks, easy take downs and dodges for what felt like hours and was probably longer. Sam was tired and aching, wrists weak after throwing out his fist so many times, when Dean called it quits.  
They had to walk back into town, pick up the Impala and all of their belongings inside. It wasn’t night yet but the sun was starting to set and there was a breeze coming down from the north.  
Sam didn’t want to climb back into the cramped confines of the car, not after so much activity. He wanted to take a shower, get clean, then lie down in next to nothing and stretch out in bed. Dean must have agreed with him, because he did not make him walk any faster than he wanted to and he did not seem to want to return to the service station.  
That didn’t stop him from gasping and whistling when he saw the Impala. It was sitting in the parking lot, shining, not just washed but waxed. Other than the small dent in the front the car looked brand new, the tire replaced and the interior painfully detailed. The wrappers from too many nights of take-out were thrown out, the grime was cleaned off of the steering wheel, and the worn leather was nicely polished.  
One of the Experts hustled out to them, sweating but smiling. She handed Dean his keys, told him his charge was right up around a hundred dollars. That was cheap for a new tire, free for all of the extra work they’d done. Dean told her so, was willing to compensate her for more.  
She waved him off, shifting her weight on her feet. “No no. That car was a pleasure to work on, an absolute pleasure. We don’t get many like that one and here? We don’t get many at all. We’ve been open all day and yours was the only one to grace our lot.”  
Dean thanked her again and the two of them got into their designated seats. There was a little cardboard tree hanging from the mirror and the whole interior smelled like febreeze, covering up the smell of old fast food and being lived in. It was all a bit too piney but it was good, fresh. Dean didn’t touch the dangling air freshener.  
Sam looked at Dean, pleaded with him without saying a word. He didn’t want to be in the car, not for hours of highways in which his legs would cramp up. They’d worked out, hard, and if he had to sleep in the car everything would hurt. Dean looked at him, knowing what Sam was trying not to say.  
“Okay, okay.” Dean sighed, watching as some kids ran in front of the still parked car, laughing, after a slightly deflated basketball. “We’ll stay. Just for a night or two.”  
Sam could have kissed him, right then and there. It had been a hard day but he was feeling good and Dean promised he’d only be feeling better.


	4. I Havent Seen You in a Long Time

It wasn’t often when they had money, but this was one of those times. They didn’t have to hurry out of town, didn’t have any fights that they had to be at. They could relax. That didn’t mean that they could stay at the Hilton or anything like that, but the Super 8 motel wasn’t all that bad and they didn’t have to share a bed.  
Dean went into the office, a slight smile to his lips. He was ready to relax, to take it easy, even if it was only for a short while. The host behind the counter was sleazy and greasy, just like always and Dean really didn’t know why that was the case. Still, he signed both of them in and got a key from him.  
Sam was outside, waiting. He was so excited about that pool; Dean had made sure to get them a room on that side of the building. He wouldn’t have to wait any longer than necessary before diving in. Dean left the office, both electronic keys in his pocket, and tried to catch up to him.  
He wasn’t that far, just wandering around the parking lot. Dean stood just in front of the door, squinting, trying to see what he was up to in the twilight. His head was down, a hand up to him ear. He wasn’t sure at first, it was a little bit too far, but he noticed Sam had his ancient nokia phone pressed to his ear. He was talking to someone. Dean’s mind raced, went through the names and faces of everyone they had met. None of them were someone Sam seemed the least bit interested and there was no one he could think of that he would have to call.  
He looked around the parking lot. There were a couple cars there, but, other than the Gremlin, none that he recognized. His ears were pricked, he tried to hear what Sam was saying, but he was too far off, too quiet. He wanted to know who was on the phone.  
It wasn’t his business, he knew that. He couldn’t eavesdrop if he wanted to anyway, no way to get close undetected. He’d promised that he wouldn’t be sneaking around, wouldn’t do anything to put either of them in jeopardy. It had been necessary when the Royce had appeared that first time.  
Sam had promised too though. He’d promised that he wouldn’t lie or trick him in any way. They were equal in that. So he shouldn’t have been concerned at all. He had to trust him. He was good at promises, surprisingly so, considering the notoriety of people his age.  
Still, he couldn’t just stand there idly. He had to make it to the room, had to unpack the car. Sam would like that, could get in that pool even sooner. Where he was then though, if Sam looked over, he would know he was just staring. He had to make his presence known, had to act casual.  
He looked at the ground, walked towards him, and coughed loudly into one hand. Sam jumped at the sound and hung up the phone, sliding it into his pocket. That was suspicious, just another thing that made Dean curious.  
“You okay?” Sam asked, acting as if he hadn’t just been on the phone.  
“Yeah.” Dean nodded, taking his hand down from his mouth. “Totally. My throat’s a little dry, that’s all, probably got some dust in there. I got us a room for two nights. Two beds too.”  
Dean pulled out the spare key, handed it to him. Show that you’re trusting and maybe they’ll trust you too. He smiled at him, tried not to show what he knew. “And the pool is still open.”  
Sam’s eyes lit up, his mouth turning into a huge grin. Dean knew he’d like that.  
Dean walked towards their room, but Sam wasn’t quite so patient. He was bouncing and skipping, a few feet ahead of his brother. Even if he was suspicious of him phone call, he did relish in the moments when Sam was obviously happy. He almost didn’t smell the anise and cigarettes on the way to their room.  
The room was small and a little bit on the gross side, not as bad as where they’d been but, as Dean kept reminding himself, it wasn’t the Hilton. A few cockroaches scampered out of view as the lights were flicked on. One of the bulbs was dead but there was more than enough light in there, even with the sun slowly dying in the distance.  
They set up their stuff, put luggage in its correct place, and Sam was undressing without a warning. Dean almost caught sight of him before he turned on his heel, swallowed hard. He put a hand over his eyes to keep himself from seeing even his reflection in the black screen of the television. He’d seen Sam naked before, of course he had, but that was long ago, back before Sam was all straight lines and lean muscle. That was before every girl who walked past was checking him out. Dean didn’t remove his hand until Sam said he was ready, apologizing as an afterthought.  
There was a vending machine on the way to the pool and they couldn’t help but get a few bottles of Coke. They were the plastic ones and the sodas were a little flat, but that was to be expected. Glass bottles in a vending machine were an accident waiting to happen. The soda helped with Dean’s so-called dry throat and it gave him something to focus on other than the questions in his mind.  
He wanted a beer. He wanted something that could dull his senses, if just a little bit. He was only twenty though and he doubted anyone would be willing to spot him. In a small town it was easy; there were times, especially in the beginning, when he was a bonafide alcoholic. Those days were behind him now but still, sometimes there was still a desire in him and now was one of those times.  
As the sun dipped below the horizon the heat died away. Sam wasn’t even in the water by the time he was shivering; one of the white towels taken from the bathroom wrapped around him arms. Dean wanted to put an arm around him, keep him warm, but not now. He was growing up, grown up, in a lot of ways. There were bulges in places and gaps in others, a terrible trail of acne down his back. There were a lot of touches he couldn’t do now, wasn’t sure how Sam would respond. He wanted to though, wanted to see how Sam would react to those touches, if he’d lean into them or pull away.  
He watched as Sam dived into the pool, leaving his towel behind on the cement walkway. His hair was immediately plastered to him back but he was no longer as cold as he had been. He turned to Dean and smiled, his eyes crinkling into nothing but dark lines.  
“Are you coming?” he called out.  
Dean wasn’t even wearing his bathing suit. He wondered if he even had one anymore. He hadn’t thought about swimming, only that Sam wanted to.  
He shrugged, “I think I’m going to go back to the room, actually. Watch some tv, maybe take a nap.”  
Sam sighed but went under the water. It wasn’t often that they got to use a pool and he was a terrible swimmer, but he loved being down there. It was okay that he wanted some alone time. They rarely had any. He’d be fine here, swimming, alone. Dean didn’t have to worry about him.  
Dean made it back to the room, making sure to leave the door unlocked so that Sam could make his way back. He hadn’t brought him key to the pool, there wasn’t any room in him trunks. They was too small for him, in Dean’s opinion, didn’t leave anything to the imagination. There hadn’t been anything to imagine back when he’d gotten it but that was years ago and he’d grown a lot since then. Now it hugged his ass in a way that Dean could hardly ignore, when wet it was impossible not to see the curve of his penis in the front. The whole concept was obscene and Dean was glad to be out of there.  
He lay down on the bed, thought about what he could do with himself in his time alone. His hand travelled down his thigh, over to his crotch, and his mind went back to Sam in his tight trunks. He decided against it and turned on the television. It was wrong, masturbating to thoughts of his little brother. He didn’t know when he had started.  
There was always so much pornography on these motel tvs, it was hard to get away from. He finally got to the old Transformers reruns though and settled in.  
Slowly, tentatively, his mind returned to the call. He still couldn’t think of anyone that Sam would want to call, couldn’t think of any numbers he would have in his contacts. The only thing he could think of was the police. He had stolen a car, even if it was around four years before. He’d also kind of technically kidnapped Sam, although it wasn’t actually technically or kind of.  
After that bad encounter with the teenagers though he thought they had had a good day. They’d had fun when he’d taught him how to defend himself, they had made jokes when they drove over to the motel, and Sam was in a pool, having as much fun as possible. Perhaps it had all been an act. Maybe he was tired of traveling with him. He didn’t know.  
He glanced over at his discarded clothes. His phone was in the pocket of his jeans. It would be easy to check it, see who he had in his contacts, see who he had called. He tore his eyes away, returned them to the screen. Optimus Prime was beating some massive robot to pieces. That should have been enough to distract him. It wasn’t his business who Sam was calling. He should have been able to trust him. He should be proud of his decisions, not afraid of them.  
He stood up. He sat back down. He stared at the pants on the floor. He knew that the phone was in there. He could check. Sam would never know. But he would be breaking his promise to him. For all he knew he had already broken his to him. He closed his eyes and breathed.  
He stood again and this time he did reach down and pick up Sam’s pants. He pulled his phone out of the pocket. It wasn’t one of the newer models, wasn’t even a flip phone, was a silver brick with big buttons. It had to be at least ten years old but it still worked like a champ and it was cheap.  
It took him a little while to figure out the menu, get to the contacts. There was no one in there other than a few emergency numbers, hospitals and urgent care centers, and Don, which was good, was Dean’s contact anyway. He was the one that found the fights half of the time, told Dean where to go.  
It took him another little while to find the recently called list. There was only one number and it didn’t come with a name attached. It was a 423 number, Kansas. There was no way that Dean could have forgotten that. He considered calling it, see who answered. That was pushing it though; he had already done more than he should have.  
“I miss a call or something?” Dean jumped at Sam’s voice, turned to see him wrapped up in his towel.  
He considered a lie but he was so curious, he had to ask. He held the phone out to him, showed him the phone number.  
“Who were you talking to?” he was so close to being angry, scared of who he may have called, worried that he’d be mad at him for snooping.  
Sam crossed his arms over his chest, cocked his hip. “It’s none of your business. I thought you weren’t going to be sneaking around.”  
“I thought you wouldn’t be either.”  
He took his phone from him and sighed, rolling his eyes. He stared down at it once it was safe in his hands, reading the number to himself. “I was talking to dad.”  
Dean froze, his face feeling cold and numb as the blood drained from it. His fingertips went numb. Those stupid five words repeated in his head. How was he supposed to respond to them? Why would he want to talk to him?  
He didn’t have a response and all of the anger and fear that had been building up in him faded away. He turned away from him, turned off the television without paying attention to it, and slumped. His shoulders were drooped and his body heavy. He felt like he may pitch forward at any moment.  
“It’s been four years, Dean.” Sam continued. He was glad that Sam was speaking because he had nothing to say and he wanted to know why. “He’s our dad. I miss him, y’know? Of course I called him.”  
He didn’t have to look at him to know that he was stepping forward, one arm outstretched so he could rest a hand on his shoulder. He twitched and shifted, just enough to stay away from the contact.  
“He’s changed a lot.” Sam continued. “He wants us to come home. He said he was sorry about what happened to you. Please, Dean? I want to go home too.”  
“He hasn’t changed.” Dean said but the words sounded hollow. His hand had risen up, his fingers tracing at the hideous white scar around his throat, rough and uneven, a rope burn.  
“How can you know that?” Sam was pleading and stepping forward, drawing nearer with each word. “Please. I want to go home. I want to be done with this life, watching you go from fight to fight, not sure if you’re going to survive them all. I want to be safe, settle down. I want my family back. Just… can’t you give him a chance?”  
No. He couldn’t. There were so many responses that he could give him, facts and truths that he’d never let come to the surface. None of them could come out though, not right then, and all he could think about was the scar on his neck, the coldness of the room, and the pain in his chest.  
There were tears in his eyes, threatening to cascade down his paled cheeks. His free hand made it to his hair, tugged and straightened it. “Was I… was I not good enough?” his voice was cracking but he still couldn’t pay attention to it. “I know I’m not him. I know I’m not the father figure you needed but… where these four years really so bad?”  
He jumped again, this time at a touch. Strong fingers, soft and careful, made contact with his shoulder and hip. Sam wrapped his hands around him, held him there and he was cursing himself. He had practiced, he had gotten so good at not flinching when he was touched and here he was, trembling and scared of the calming hands of his brother.  
“You were so good to me.” Sam whispered, trying to console him. “You are. But you’re not Dad and I’m tired of moving around all of the time. I miss him. I miss a normal life. These four years? I’m never going to forget them, not ever. And I know how hard this is for you, especially with what happened. I know I don’t understand everything that had occurred but it’s in the past now. You can get over it, right?”  
Dean tried to understand what he was saying. Get over it? There was no “getting over” what had happened to him. He didn’t know what he was trying to say, how much he knew. It felt good though, to have him touching him, holding him. It was comforting and something that he wished he’d felt more of back then, when they lived in that house.  
He turned his head, tried to see him without pulling away. “What?”  
Sam was the one who pulled away instead and Dean didn’t want that, wanted him to keep those hands on him, ground him.  
“You’re accident.” he explained. His voice was so calm and soft, so patient. “I never told you, but I saw what happened. The end of it, anyway. You were on the ground and there was water everywhere, it was coming out of your mouth. I was so scared. I thought you were dead. The scar was fresh then. It looked like you had tried to hang and drown yourself at the same time but I don’t know, that’s not possible. And Dad. He was there, sitting over you. He saved your life.”  
He was no longer a comfort. Dean didn’t know what he was but comforting was not it. He backed away from him, not knowing how to take this information. It was wrong, all of it was wrong. He’d never tried to kill himself, he’d thought about it but the act? He’d never gone through with it. Still, this was not that he’d expected him to know.  
“I can’t figure out why you hate Dad so much.” he echoed. “He saved you.”  
Those tears in his eyes started to fall but he brushed them away before they became unstoppable, before he was a mess of sobs and wails on the floor. He wanted to tell him the truth. He wanted to tell him who their father really was and why he was so reluctant to go back there.  
He didn’t say anything, not for a long time. He knew how much Sam loved their father, had turned him into an idol in his mind. Dean had never stopped him, had never given him a reason to doubt the wonders of their parent. There were so many reasons to hate him but he’d given him none.  
“Fine.” Dean gave up, unable to even tell him the truth about what had happened way back then. He couldn’t even look at him. “I’ll take you home. Pack your things.”


	5. Blinded by the Light

They hadn’t waited until morning. They hadn’t even eaten. They had packed easily and quickly, had only unpacked a few things so Sam could swim. They did all of this in silence and he hated that. It had been such a good day, other than that beginning, and there was no need for them to be silent now. He knew though, that Dean was hurt and angry and sad, because of him. He had betrayed him and was making him go back to somewhere he didn’t want to go. He could understand why he was being so quiet.  
The road was moving beneath them, the tires rolling all happily inflated. The stars weren’t moving, only the earth was, the plant life and fields speeding past at an exceptional speed. There were animals, tiny field mice running out of the view of the headlights.  
There were over six hundred miles between them and Lawrence, Kansas. They’d been on the road for six already, and it was awkward and uncomfortable. Sam had already taken three naps, maybe only half an hour at a time, and the rest of it was spent counting the rodents that darted around out there.  
They still had ten more hours of driving and the sun would come up in that time, the need to eat would as well, not to mention really sleeping.  
Dean wasn’t going to sleep though, Sam knew that. His anxiety was electric and he could feel the pulse of it. He could see how his mind was racing with how his eyes darted, how jumpy he was. He was afraid and it was contagious.  
Sam knew that there was more than he knew about what had occurred between Dean and their father. He knew that the suicide attempt that he had walked in on was strange and impossible. He knew that there was no way that Dean wanted to go back there. He was glad that he was though, that he was giving their father a chance and he was going to have an opportunity to have a normal life.  
He had been talking with their father for a couple of months now, always waiting until Dean was out of the way, in the bathroom or in a fight. He had to wait until he was gone and he had felt bad, sneaking around like that. He was convinced that their dad had changed, had gotten better in these years apart. Maybe, there was a chance, that Dean and he would finally see eye to eye.  
Sam remembered the night that they left so well, not like it was four years before but only a few weeks. He had been asleep, even though he had no idea how he could sleep. He had seen his brother dead on the floor, only that afternoon. Then he saw him revived, saw him gasp and come back to life. He had seen that and their father, sitting over him, watching over him. He didn’t know how Dean had been capable of choking and drowning but he was glad that he had failed.  
He had snuck into his room that night. He was crying. The tears were brightly shining on his face. He wasn’t able to speak, his throat too raw, inside and out. But he grabbed him by the wrist, pulled him out the window, and the two of them had climbed down off of the roof and down to the driveway. He followed Dean on instinct, because he was his brother, because he trusted him. He thought that he could talk him down from running away but he was as deaf to him as he was mute.  
It was only later when Dean had told him that their father was a witch. There was no way that he could believe him. He knew that witches weren’t real and they weren’t men anyway.  
He kept his eyes on the road, and, in the mirror, he saw the headlights. They were still a long distance behind them but still, he could see them, could recognize them. He knew that it was that same Rolls Royce as always, just behind them, matching their speed.  
It didn’t matter. It was just a car. It was just some person. He didn’t pay them any mind.  
He leaned on his palm, his hair against the window. He wished that the radio was on, that there was some kind of distraction. Where he was now though, the only thing he had to pass the time with was sleep. 

Dean reached up, his calloused and rough fingers light on his neck. He could still feel the soft ridged of the scar on his neck, knew where it was without being able to see it. He could understand why Sam believed he had attempted suicide, there was enough evidence for it, but the truth was that he hadn’t. Feeling the scar, he shuddered, remembering the feeling that had washed through him when he had first received it.  
Their father’s hands were cold, icy, and wet. They had wrapped around his throat, the flat fingernails digging into the arteries and tendons. His vessels had bulged as he had fought for air, his lungs feeling colder than the hands that were on him. He fought, reaching out with his own hands, scratching and clawing. He was weak then, unable to do anything, and his attempts only made his father angrier. He squeezed harder, made black stars dance before his vision.  
His father had spat on him. A large wad of wetness had hit his cheek, had splattered on him, mixing with his tears.  
He remembered the feeling of his eyes, dry from staring, being open for so long, rolling up in the sockets. He remembered how scratchy they felt, how the skin of his eyelids fell over them like butter being scraped onto blackened toast. He remembered his heavy limbs, cold and bloodless. All of his blood was in his lungs and throat, trying to get them to move. There was nothing though, no air. Just blood.  
And then water. He was so confused, couldn’t make sense of it. His whole body was filling up, his screaming lungs expanding as water poured into him. There were bursts of color, fireworks just inside of his closed eyelids. He had thought it was a dream, something that would be forgotten upon waking, or perhaps the River Styx from the books they were studying at school and he would forget it all, pain and fear and Sam. He had fallen unconscious after thinking of that horrible thought.  
When they were just small, Sam four and Dean eight, he had invented a game called Monster in the Hall. Sam looked up to him back then, thought that Dean was cool and fun. Not like now, where he idolized the father that he’d stolen his from. He wanted to do anything Dean wanted to do, wanted to make him proud, wanted to be just like his big brother.  
Dean was a quick learner. He knew when their father was about to snap, even though at that point he’d only been violent and angry for around four years. He had been kinder before Sam was born, before their mother had died. Back then, like any other self respecting four year old, Sam was afraid of the dark. he had a night light in his room but that didn’t stop him from sneaking out of his room and making his way to Dean's most nights, where he would cuddle up with Dean for protection. He’d always wanted Sam to be safe. He taught him the truth about the darkness, that the only thing that was scary in the dark was him.  
He made sure that he stayed away from spiders that they didn’t know and promised him that bats don’t in crawlspaces or attics. And he made up a game based off of his abundant imagination.  
Monster in the Hall always started when Dad was made, curling in on himself in a way that Dean recognized. He knew that he would hurt Sam if he was the one in his sights. He wouldn’t allow that. So they would play.  
Dean would hide him in a dark space, the basement, a crawlspace, the attic, wherever the two of them could fit. He was scared at first, thinking that the darkness would get him, seeing shapes and shadows of what would come to get them. It was a survival game though and soon enough it became fun for Sam.  
Sam had to hide in the darkness and wait, come up with a plan. He had to figure out how to get away and survive a monster attack. Dean had to pretend to be the monster. He would sneak in after him, usually about an hour later, although he never told him long it had been and he thought it was just a long amount of minutes, lengthened by his time alone and impatience. He would chase him though, through those dark places, the monster he had imagined.  
He had to survive the scary monster in the darkness. He had to survive their father upstairs.  
Dean knew that it wasn’t hatred that made their father do the things that he did. He knew that he didn’t like how effeminate Dean had been as a child, too emotional and imaginative, and had tried to toughen him up with a couple of broken bones and more bruises than he could count. That was rarely the reason for their father’s aggression though, rarely the root cause of why Dean hid Sam away and lied about the passing of time. Usually the violence was brought on by heavy drinking and general anger management problems.  
Sam didn’t know any of this, still didn’t. He didn’t even know that he had a drinking problem. To him the man was a God, a beacon of home, and the perfect example of what a man and father should be. He had never seen a bruise, cut, or break on Dean. Even when he went to him just after an attack he didn’t see them. They were always healed up before he could see them and the only thing he knew that was amiss was that Dean flinched so much more than others.  
He hadn’t lied when he told Sam that their father was a witch. He just didn’t think that was the right word but wizard and magician sounded too theatrical.  
After every incident their father would break down. He would apologize and sob and, at first, Dean believed that he really was sorry. He could hardly control his emotions and hated himself for the pain he had given his child. Dean thought maybe he had been a good man at some point of his life but he had lost it and here, after his abuse, he was mourning the loss of himself.  
His hands would be wet with tears and he would touch Dean, wetness on whatever wound had been dealt. Dean didn’t want it, wanted to be away, wanted to keep his father’s hands away from him. The man would whisper something that Dean couldn’t understand and the injury would heal. If the wound was really bad, the man would use a glass of water. Dean couldn’t understand it, but he knew that it was water based, whatever it was.  
He could have removed the scar he’d given Dean at the age of fourteen, the one that was still so angry around his throat. He hadn’t though. He told Dean that was the one that he deserved and he would wear it all of his life.  
It was his fault. He had brought it upon himself. All of those years of his father calling him queer and guy, all of those years of the other boys at school calling him that as well, finally made him decide to see if he was. He was too nervous to talk to girls, especially at the age of sixteen. Before puberty he had liked them, they were safe, not as violent or scary as boys.  
He thought that he was just out of the loop, that, if everybody else knew he was gay, he probably was, just unable to realize it. So he tried it out. Bristol wasn’t a big town, there weren’t a lot of people who were open with their sexualities and if you were anything other than straight there was a problem. There was one boy though, in Dean’s grade, who was gay and open about it. He was teased and bullied relentlessly and Dean would have had to admit that he liked him, would have been his friend, if it weren’t for his sexual orientation.  
He asked him out, had a small date. The boy was so happy to finally be accepted. They were together for a few weeks, mostly hanging out and playing Frisbee, sometimes doing homework together. One day, while walking home from school, the boy had kissed him. They were standing by a chain link fence that surrounded a park, something that films would consider romantic. Dean wasn’t able to feel it though, knew at that moment, that he wasn’t as gay as everyone thought.  
Unfortunately for Dean though, they had been seen and, as word made it around school, it also made it back to Dean’s father. The boy had already been bullied at school, but now it was merciless, and Dean was getting it too. They were pushed into lockers, called names, and beaten up, even after Dean had called it off.  
Dean had just about died, was sure that he actually had, for a few minutes.  
He had no idea that Sam knew anything about that. He must have gotten tired of waiting for him in the crawlspace. He was thirteen and there was no chance that he actually liked playing Monster in the Hall anymore. He always played though, humored Dean with the game. They were starting to grow apart but he still looked up to him in some ways. His concept of time was better than it had been as a child and he must have come out to look for him, saw the aftermath.  
Dean shook his head, focused back on the road. All he could think about was back then, the fact that he didn’t want to go back. He couldn’t. He couldn’t allow what had happened to him be done to Sam. Why couldn’t he have told him the truth? Everything would have been so much simpler if he’d been honest since the beginning.  
There was a flash in his rear view mirror and he looked up. There was another car there, following close behind, tailing them. They drew a little bit closer and the headlights weren’t reflected at such an angle, he could see the car. He still couldn’t see the driver, but he recognized the flawless car and its shiny new hood ornament.  
He glanced over at Sam. he was asleep again, cheek resting in his palm. That was good, the more relaxed a person is the less they’ll get hurt.  
Dean was tired of being followed and, if he got in a wreck, at least that would mean he wouldn’t have to go home.  
He put his arm out, made a strong barricade before Sam’s chest. He was wearing his seatbelt and that was good but Dean had seen enough car accidents to see what they could do, how many broken necks and clavicles came from them. The Impala didn’t even have an airbag on that side for Sam. He had to do what he could to keep him safe.  
He slammed on the breaks.  
The car fought him, trying to swerve and making a terrible sound. There was a cloud of smoke around them, the tires burning from friction. There was no automatic breaking system and Dean gritted his teeth, demanded control of the car. He kept that arm in front of Sam; let him fall against it as he woke up swearing in a scream.  
They were moving. Muscles tensed but still fell forward, hitting the skin and pushing forward. Momentum pushed the organs, made them collide with bones, which smacked against the seat belt painfully. Sam’s momentum was slowed by Dean’s arm but not stopped and he was still screaming in surprise. Both of their heads whipped forward, the muscles in their necks straining.  
The car stopped. Everything was still outside, other than the white gray cloud of smoke the enveloped them. Sam was staring at Dean, cursing and asking him over and over what he thought he was doing.  
Dean didn’t answer. He didn’t move. It didn’t feel like they had caused a crash. They weren’t on the side of the road, a car in their rear end, pushing them to the side. There was no smoke for a cracked open engine.  
When he could see through the smoke of their own tires he could see the back lights of the Rolls Royce. It was fine, moving, going on its way, leaving them behind. He could even hear what they were listening to, Bruce Springsteen’s “Blinded by the Light.”  
“Shit.” Dean muttered.


	6. Don't Give Up on People

Four years. It had been four years since they’d left and the house looked the same as it always had. Sure the paint was old and starting to flake and the weeds in the garden were now smothering the flowers that their mother had planted before Sam was even born, but it was still the same house. There were no lights on and it appeared that their father wasn’t even there, but they couldn’t see through the windows all that well with the lights off.   
There was a long patch of dead grass, where the Impala used to be parked exclusively, and life still hadn’t returned to the golden earth. The Impala was never driven, only worked on, and the chemicals that had spilled from it had poisoned the growth. It was their father’s baby and Dean had stolen it.   
Sam was smiling, he couldn’t stop it. He was home. He was going to see his daddy again. They were going to be a family again. He glanced at Dean, saw that he was breathing hard, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.   
Dean was afraid. Sam should have been afraid too. It had been four years. There was a chance that their father would be angry with their disappearance and all that, but Sam was sure he wasn’t. He’d sounded so clam over the phone.   
He was like a small, yippy type dog, looking from Dean to the house and back again, just waiting for permission to run. Dean was still terrified but he looked at Sam and nodded. That was permission enough. Sam was gone, his luggage still in the car, and his legs were pumping as he raced over the grass.   
He could tell that Dean was out of the car too, although he was moving slower and more carefully. Sam stood in front of the olive green door, bouncing on his heels, waiting for Dean to catch up.   
Looking back at him he could see that car parked down the block. His heart sank just a little bit at the sight of it, that familiar navy Rolls Royce. Dean was walking towards him though, chewing on the calluses on his hand, the ones that had grown with his fighting of the steering wheel.   
He waited until Dean was standing beside him before he knocked on the door. He patted the hard wood with his knuckles, his smile shining. He flashed it to his brother, but Dean could not return the excitement.   
There was silence from inside.   
And then there wasn’t. There was the sound of enthusiastic footsteps, muffled by carpet. Sam’s smile was growing, his heart pounding louder than his father’s steps. He ignored the look of terror on Dean’s face, just buzzed where he stood.   
The door opened. Dad peered out, smiling, expectant. His smile was kind and put crinkles in his eyes, spider webs at the corners. He was large and muscular, just like Sam, but different in so many other ways. His hair was dark and graying in the corners, but not balding in the slightest.   
His arms were immediately open for Sam, grabbing him and holding him tightly to his chest. He could feel Dean’s panic behind him, his need to take him from their dad, but he did not. Sam held his father almost as tightly as he held him and they stood together for a long moment, just embracing one another.   
“Sam!” Dad exclaimed, his voice raspy and breaking, tears in his eyes. “My baby boy! Oh, it’s been so long! Look at you! You’ve grown up so much!”  
“I missed you so much, Dad.” Sam replied, not breaking the hug. He didn’t want it to end, not ever. He wanted to stay in his father’s arms, his proud son again.   
It did end, eventually and Sam stood to the side, almost presenting Dean. He hoped that this would work out, that they would at least try to get along. It had been so long. Surely the grudges they held would slip away.   
The two men just stood there for a while, staring at one another awkwardly. Dean was scowling, which he didn’t do often, and Sam wanted to elbow him to stir him out of it. Dean’s hands were clenching and opening up at his sides and his ears were turning bright red, so he knew not to touch him. He was in the middle of deciding whether to fight or flee.   
Dad didn’t move, didn’t hold his arms out for a hug, didn’t stick out his hand. He understood Dean’s anger, far better than Sam did. He waited for Dean to make the first move. He did, eventually, sticking out his hand. They shook and there was no way that Sam could have missed the way they gripped each other, hard and strong, trying to show who’s the bigger man. Sam thought it was childish.   
“John.” Dean stated. He wasn’t even trying. Sam glared at him. It was Dad, not John.   
“Dean.” Dad replied and there was a slight note of disheartenment in his tone. He was trying; he wanted to be their dad again. Sam couldn’t understand why Dean was fighting this so much, not believing that he had changed or that he was a good person.   
Dad backed away from the door and let them in, which Sam did with the same speed that he had left the car with. Dean was still slow and scared to enter.   
The interior of the house was much like the outside, exactly like it was when they left, just a little older. If anything it was a little bit cleaner than it had been no newspapers or beer bottles lying around. The walls were dark hardwood that made the entire place feel like a cozy cave and there was beige carpeting in all of the rooms. The furniture was a myriad of colors but all matched in the way that it sagged, looking like it had been found on the side of the road with a “free” sign taped to it.   
Dad, regardless of Dean’s reaction, was bouncing almost as much as Sam. “Can I get you anything to eat?”  
The pair shook their heads in unison. There had been far too many nights when one or both of them had gone to bed hungry, only because their father was such a terrible cook. No matter how much he had changed, even Sam doubted that his kitchen skills had improved all that much. They had gotten some half edible food on the way, from one of the dime a dozen drive-thrus. It was at least twice as good as anything he could cook.   
“It’s so good to see you both again.” Dad proclaimed and he slid and arm around Sam again, hugged him tight against his side. It was awkward now and he couldn’t really hug him back. “It’s been so lonely here without you both. Now, I’ve kept your rooms just like they were when you left, I doubt any of your old things will fit you but still. Oh, you’re both basically adults now!”  
Sam didn’t want to be an adult, not in that moment. He wanted to be a little boy, the kind that got piggy back rides from him dad so that his fingers could brush the popcorn ceiling, the kind that had sat at his father’s feet while watching cartoons, the kind that got roughhoused and chased around the playground. He felt like that now, like that little kid, and it had been so long since he had.   
“Why didn’t you search for us?”  
The question was quiet, soft, and desperate, but it pulled Sam out of his thoughts, his feelings. He hadn’t even thought of that. He thought that they had been looked for. But now, all he remembered was Dean’s paranoia, the way he had always looked over his shoulder for the police, the way he’d always signed into motels with fake names. He’d never seen a single hint that they were being searched for.   
“Why didn’t you search for us?” Dean repeated, louder now, loud enough for their father to hear him, “I took your car. I took Sam. There were no missing person’s reports, nothing in the news, not a single police officer. How dare you act so lovey-dovey now. You didn’t look for us at all! Did you not care?”  
Dad looked hurt and Sam could have punched Dean for that. Sure, he wanted to know too, but that was no reason to ask in such a way, ask so abruptly ad out of the blue.   
“Did I not care?” Dad’s voice cracked again and the tears in his eyes grew, these not of the joy of seeing his children again. “Of course I cared! I wanted you back so badly, both of you. I thought about going to the police, hell, I thought about going out and finding you myself. I knew though. You were messed up and that was my fault, I know that was my fault. You were doing what you had to, in your mind, to take care of yourself and your sister. I knew that if I found you, if I dragged you back here, it would only make everything worse.”  
Dean still couldn’t trust it. It was in his face. Sam stared at him, eyes wide. He wished that how he felt right now, how he felt like he was finally home, could go to his brother. He wished Dean could be happy, could accept that their father really was a new man.   
“Look at you.” Dad changed the subject and stepped forward. He was smiling, it was small, but he was, “Twenty years old. A little rough on the edges, looks like someone beat the hell out of you a couple of times, but, nonetheless, a strong, healthy man. And look at that hair! It’s gotten so long!”  
Dean froze at that. Even Sam paused, felt a shrill pang of fear in him spine. Dad could never stand Dean’s hair getting long as a kid. He thought it made him look feminine. Dean had grown up with his hair as short as his fathers, even though it made his ears look big. Dean had always wanted longer hair, had always been jealous as he’d run his fingers through the neighbor girls’. Now he finally had it and he looked terrified of what he thought their father might do about it. Sam expected a pair of scissors to come out, or at least a litany of teasing.   
“It looks good.” Dad said, interrupting the panic that was building in Dean. “I like it. You look like you could use a shower but, otherwise, you look good.”  
Sam’s smile returned. At least one of them was trying to be hospitable. Dean’s eyes were lowered and he was chewing on the callus on his thumb again. Sam could have swatted him for that. Sam wasn’t supposed to play with his lip ring but Dean was going to worry all of the skin off of his hand.   
“We should celebrate.” Dad thought out loud, “Yeah. Have a big party. We can invite all of your old friends from school! It’s so good to have the two of you home again.”  
He couldn’t get over it. Neither could Sam. Every chance the two of them had they would be touching, a hand on the shoulder, a pat on the head, palm on the small of the back. It was like they were dreaming and they both kept trying to make sure the other was really there.   
Sam felt bad though, watching Dean shift his weight from one foot to the other, so uncomfortable and out of place. Dad wouldn’t even try to touch him. He was a ball of loose nerves, trying to hide his panic. Sam could see it clear as day, had seen it at every fight, every time he had to ask for help. There was a wall of stoicism he had built for himself in the ring and he hid behind it now.   
Sam and his father spent time catching up, speaking until late into the afternoon. Sam told him about some of the more memorable places that they had visited. Dad told him about getting clean, sobering up, the friends he’d made in his AA meetings. A lot had happened in four years.   
Eventually, the brothers went back out to the Impala and Dean opened the trunk. Sam wanted to reprimand him, tell him to be better, kinder, give Dad a chance. Neither of them spoke though, just unloaded the luggage that they had accumulated over the years.   
They could both feel eyes on them, the Rolls Royce so close by, but they were used to that. Dean clearly wasn’t comfortable about it though. He turned and gasped when he looked over at it. Sam joined him, looking where he was staring with his mouth open.   
Leaning against the side of the navy convertible was a man, a cigarette hanging from his pink cracked lips. There was smoke surrounding him and, for a moment, Sam wasn’t sure if it was coming from the cigarette or all of him. He looked just like Sam thought, the man he had imagined that first night he’d seen the car.   
He waved the pair of them over, no expression on his face.  
Dean walked over as if he was hypnotized, faster than he had approached the house. Sam loitered behind him, not so sure if he wanted to meet this strange man. He had been following them for well over a thousand miles though and Sam wanted to know why. He followed Dean closely, half hidden behind him.   
The man wore a full suit, immaculate and clean, all hidden under a tan overcoat that was just a size or two too large for him. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark aviators.   
Seeing Dean and this stranger at the same time, Sam agreed with his father. He needed a shower. Dean’s hair was greasy, his clothing didn’t need washing but replacing, the ones he was wearing should have been burned, and there was a smell to him that came from close quarters and low hygiene. There was grime practically ground into him.   
“So,” he started. He was trying not to sound surprised or nervous, trying to sound suave, nonchalant. Normally that would have made Sam laugh. “We finally meet.”  
The stranger snapped off his sunglasses with his perfectly manicured hand, revealing startling blue eyes, too blue. His eyebrows were furrowed over those pretty eyes. He almost looked angry but was mostly serious.   
“This is John Winchester’s house, yes? You finally came back here?” he asked and his voice didn’t match him face. It wasn’t pretty or clean at all, it was dark and raspy. Sam took a step back.   
“Uh.” Dean started, not sure why that was important. There was no reason that he couldn’t have found the house on his own. He didn’t need to follow them for months to get there. He didn’t know how to respond. Neither did Sam. “Yes. Why? Why were you following us?”  
The man took a drag from his cigarette and flicked it, letting the ash fall. “I had to get here. I’m under strict order to get inside of the house. Thank you for your services, I was worried it would take another year.”  
Sam wanted to walk away, wanted Dean to walk away too. He wasn’t moving though, was squinting up at him. There was something hypnotic about his not-quite-right eyes.   
“Wait.” Dean hesitated, stepped forward and leaving Sam behind. “Strict orders? What are you, child services or something?”  
Child services? There was no way that a man like that worked for child services. Sam knew that and he knew that Dean did too.   
The stranger rolled his eyes before answering, took another drag. “I work for an independent third party that would prefer to remain anonymous. You’re father took something from them and I am here to get it back. I, unfortunately, am going to have to request your help in order to get past his security.”  
Sam’s eyebrows knotted and he squinted at the man, trying to understand him. There was no security; they didn’t even have a working smoke detector when he was a kid. And Dad stealing something? He wasn’t the best of people, Dean would swear up and down that he wasn’t but stealing was beyond him. He couldn’t believe this stranger. Alcohol or smokes, something small, that made sense but he could not imagine him father stealing anything important enough for someone to send a raspy business ninja after him.   
“What did he steal?” Sam asked, finally finding his voice. He knew that Dean wouldn’t stand up for their dad and someone had to.  
“What?” the man asked, finally seeing Sam for maybe the first time.   
Sam swallowed and his eyes fell to the ground. His voice went even quieter than it had been before. His hand went out, almost went to Dean’s side. “What did he steal?”  
Dean had noticed his hand though, had felt his nervousness. His brother holding his hand, a finger stroking his knuckles, helped to calm his nerves.   
The stranger heard him that time and shrugged. If his arms hadn’t been crossed over his well developed chest already, he would have crossed them. “That’s none of your concern.”  
“Yeah, actually it is.” Sam actually stepped in front of his brother then, dropping his hand. He was scared, sure, but this guy had been following them for so long and now he was insulting their dad. Sam could stay scared or he could get angry. “You’ve been following us for months! You can’t expect us to just let you walk all over us now! I’m demanding answers and surely it can’t hurt too much to give them.”  
The man squinted at him, head cocked to the side. The blue of his irises burned, the coloring flaring. The fear grew stronger than the anger and Sam took a step back, ready to hide once more behind Dean’s strong back. He looked like he was trying to destroy Sam with his mind alone.   
He sighed instead, and pushed his sunglasses back to the bridge of his nose. “He stole a knife.”  
“That’s it?” Dean asked and Sam was with him there. A knife isn’t much at all.   
He looked over his glasses at Dean, irritated. He wasn’t the kind of person who liked to be interrupted. “It’s an antique and it’s priceless. It was never supposed to be touched by mortal hands again.”  
The way that he said “human” made the hairs on Sam’s arms stand on end. There was something wrong there. He said the word like he thought he was above it.   
“How long has he had it?” Dean continued.   
“Long before you were even born, little man.”  
Sam looked at Dean. It didn’t matter what the man was going to do, he was more afraid of what Dean would. He was calm most of the time, unless he was nervous, but his temper rarely got the better of him. The only time it did was when someone noticed his height. He tall but Sam still towered over him, as did their dad, and that made him look short. This man though, was even a few inches shorter than Dean, yet brought that point up.   
Sam put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, watched as his nostrils flared and his pupils dilated. He breathed though, tried to ignore it, and kept his eyes down. He could have torn this stranger apart for that but the fact that he hadn’t made Sam wonder. Was Dean afraid of him as well?  
He didn’t say anything for a while and it wasn’t the flaring anger that made him quiet. He was thinking. His mind was traveling through every inch of the house, from the rooms to the insides of the walls, everywhere that the pair had been in.   
“I’m sorry.” Dean shook his head. “I’ve never heard of any knife like that. Haven’t seen one either.”  
“That is not important.” he waved Dean off. “I don’t need that from you. I need you to let me in.”  
Dean shook his head though and Sam was back to being on the sidelines. He could tell that, in this conversation, he did not matter. It was only Dean that the man was interested in.   
“Let you in?” Dean’s face was scrunched, his eyes scanning him, and he found him illegible. “Why should I? You haven’t given us any proof, any reason too! All you’ve given is a threatening tone and there is no way that’s going to move me. This house? There is no security! There is no knife! My father is a scumbag and a liar and a cheat, but he hasn’t done anything to you or your employers or whatever. You’re wasting your time.”  
The stranger should have responded to that. His face should have fallen and Sam was amazed that he had kept the same uninterested look on his face the entire time. He turned on his heel though and opened the door to the Rolls Royce.   
“Poor little man. You must really think there is hope for you and your father. I know what he did to you; can see it in the way you move. He has not changed, even if you would like to pretend he has. Go ahead and continue to defend him all you wish, but I was going to offer to help you. You need help with him. You need help keeping your brother safe. But you have to let me.”  
Dean said nothing, just watched as he got himself ready and drove off. Some of those blue petals blew out of the car, leaving a trail behind him. Sam watched him, ignored the car. Dean was confused, thoughts bubbling up. “How did he know?” he heard him whisper to himself. He had known a lot of things, things that Dean hadn’t said. Sam knew that their father had changed but he had no idea that Dean was hoping it was true.   
He shook his head and walked back to the house. Sam kept in step with him, a hand on his arm, and made sure he was alright. He said that he was, but he didn’t trust it. He didn’t seem alright. And Sam wanted him to be alright. He wanted to keep his brother safe, just as he always had from emotions.   
When they made it back to the house there was a phonebook on the table. It was an old one, the kind that was hand made by members of the PTA. It had a drawing on the cover of Vance Middle School. Sam hadn’t seen it in years.   
Dad was in the kitchen, washing the dirty dishes from the dinner only he had risked eating. He smiled at the pair as they walked in. There was a window in the kitchen, he must have seen everything that had happened out there, had seen that strange man. He said nothing on that subject though and instead drew Sam’s attention to the book on the table.   
“I thought you could call some of your friends from high school, invite them over for your coming home party. I’m sure they’d love to see you.”  
Sam nodded and sat at the table. His mind was blank. He didn’t want to call people, figure out who even remembered him. He just kept thinking of that man and Dean. He couldn’t help but wonder why they thought his dad was so terrible.   
Dean vanished as soon as he was sitting down, back to the front room to take the luggage they had brought into the house up into their rooms. They would have separate rooms and Sam wondered if he would be able to sleep. It had been so long since he’d had a room to himself. He wondered if he even wanted a room to himself. He liked looking over at Dean, watching him sleep. He liked to be there when the dreams came.   
He swallowed and tried to pay attention to the book in front of him. The names of his friends were highlighted or underlined; a crush had hearts drawn around it. A few friends who had turned unsavory were crossed out. He was sure most of them had forgotten him or had moved away. It had been four years and now they were all graduated or graduating.   
What would they think of him now? He had left in the seventh grade, hadn’t done anything to complete him education. He had looked things up, researched endlessly, taught himself everything that he could. But that wasn’t the stuff he was supposed to learn in school. They would all think that he was idiot now, even though he’d always had pretty good grades before. They’d all be miles ahead of him, ready to go to college.   
Dad had looked over, had seen his son stare blankly at the book. He popped open a can of diet soda and sat beside him.   
“What’s going on, Slimjim?”  
He cringed at the pet name. That was something that he’d liked about Dean. He’d always called him Sam, never a nickname other than the random Sammy or Bitch.   
“Am I dumb?” he asked, looking up at his dad. “I haven’t been going to school. I’m so far behind. I don’t even have a GED.”  
“You know, I dropped out of high school, right?” Dad told him. He shook his head, he didn’t know that. “Well, I did. I was young and in love and then, well, your mom got pregnant. I decided to be with her and support our family. School was just going to get in the way. So I quit and got a job. Ended up going to ‘Nam, but I came back just after Dean was born. Probably one of the best decisions of my life.”  
“Yeah but you at least had some high school.” Sam corrected, “I never even started.”  
Dad reached out and ruffled his hair, smiling at him. He made him feel precious. “You still can. You can go back to school, get a tutor, catch up. If you want your GED you can get it. If you want to go to college, we can figure that out too.”  
Sam smiled, excitement in his throat. He’d wanted to go back to school for a while, but had never told Dean. He didn’t want him feeling guilty over that as well as everything else. But he’d felt like such an idiot, like people around him knew things that he didn’t. He was awkward with people and didn’t know about peer pressure and all that stuff. He wanted to learn. Learning law and and government and civil rights on the road were interesting to him, but he needed to learn more.   
More excited than he had been before, he went back to the book and Dad to his cleaning. Dad had changed a lot, just like he’d said he had. Not only were there no beer bottles scattered around but there was no alcohol in the cupboards or fridge. He wore a bracelet with the months he’d been sober on it.   
He hummed old rock songs just under his breath and Sam tried to recognize them, finding it as hard to place them as he did the names in the phonebook. He’d never had much of a care about music before they had left and he was a terrible hummer. Most classic rock songs were easy for Sam to recognize, they were all Dean liked to listen to. Dad would randomly perk up; tell Sam some strange factoid he’d gotten from the History and Discovery channel. When Sam was a kid he only watched mindless action shows.   
Sam couldn’t stop smiling. His dad was cleaner and softer, happier. He had changed and nothing that that man outside had said would change Sam’s mind about that. He had friends now, had made them in his AA meetings, drank soda and apple juice instead of beer and scotch, he played cards and board games. He even walked the neighbors dog every once in a while.  
And there was someone new in the house with him. Her name was Odjur and she was a lean and beautiful cat. Dad said that she had just come in one day and he couldn’t make her leave. She had adopted him. Her fur was sleek and dark, with silver stripes. She had golden eyes, which were squinted most of the time, showing that she was happy.   
Everyone in the house seemed to be happy. All except for Dean. Although Sam doubted there was anything that could be done about that.


	7. Walk on me

John hadn’t lied to them, the bedrooms looked exactly like they had when the two had left, including the dirty clothes on the floor and the dishes on the windowsill. Dean left his duffle bag by the bed and moved to open the window immediately. It had to be toxic in there, so much mould from food and sweat stained clothing. There was still homework sitting on his desk, the spine of his math book broken from being open so long. They bed was a mess as well, he’d never been good at remembering to make the it, and there was no way he was going to sleep there until the bedding had all been thoroughly washed. There were pictures on the walls, clipping from magazines. All of the red had been bleached out of them by the sun and looking back on them he didn’t know why he’d wanted them in the first place.   
He picked up some the dirty laundry, wrapped it in the sheets he tore from the bed and took them downstairs. It was easy to fall back into it, the motions of doing laundry, the skipping of that one creaky step, the way you look over your brother’s shoulder when he sits at the table, seeing if he needs help with his homework.   
It wasn’t homework that Sam was working on. He had a pad of paper and the old phonebook from when they were kids.   
“You want to help me out here?” Sam asked, pushing the phonebook towards him.  
Dean sat beside him, looking at the names he already had written down. There weren’t many of them and of the ones he did have, only three weren’t crossed out.   
“You change your minds about those ones?” Dean asked, pointing out his thick lines.   
“They have different phone numbers now. Or moved. Or, well, one of them died.”  
Dean knew how that went. He’d never known anyone who had killed themselves, but he knew people whose friends had, he’d fought against a lot of people who’d lost family to suicide. He knew how bad it hurt; even if it was someone you’d lost contact with.   
“Sorry.” Sam continued, trying to move the conversation forward. “I didn’t know any of your friends’ names. You can add them to the list if you want.”  
Dean took the pen from him, noting how gruff and rough his fingers had become. They looked like John’s. “Don’t worry about it. I didn’t have that many.”  
He added three names to the list but not their numbers. He didn’t know them. Sam could find them if he really wanted to but it didn’t matter to him. He didn’t need friends at this party, he didn’t want a party.   
Sam had asked for his help though so he was giving it, reading off the names so that he could write them down. That made it easier, Sam not having to lose his spot when he moved to write them down. His reading level wasn’t low, but he was slow at it, having been out of practice.   
When they were done with it all Sam had five guests and Dean had two, Garth Fitzgerald IV and Rhonda Hurley. They were the only ones who he’d told about the bruises and hurt he was suffering, and Garth was the only man he’d ever kissed. He’d forgotten to even break up with him. John had put a few people on the list as well, some family members, his coworkers, and some of the people from his AA meetings. He had more people than the pair of them combined.   
John walked through the kitchen while Sam was on the phone, calling their Uncle and inviting him. His hand ran across Sam’s shoulders and he turned, smiled at him. A shiver went up Dean’s spine. John was touching Sam far too much. He was only getting some juice from the fridge though, filling a tall glass with it. In moments he was leaving, giving Sam the peace he needed for his phone calls.   
Dean had something to say, words that had solidified and were lying in the pit of his stomach. He followed John out of the room, into the living room, his head hung low. He had barely spoken a word to John since he’d arrived. He’d wanted to believe Sam, that he had changed, and he saw evidence of it but it was all superficial. He wanted to know if it was bone deep change. All of this time apart had not healed Dean’s wounds but had made them deeper and he could not trust.   
There were questions soldering the inside of his throat as well, questions that the dark stranger had planted.   
“Is someone after you?” Dean asked, his voice quiet.  
John turned around and sat in his recliner, the same one he used to pass out in. He found a coaster though, put his glass of juice on it instead of on the already water-stained wood. “Not that I know of. Why?”  
“There was a man.” Dean paced, “He’s been following us for some time now. He approached us when we were getting our luggage out of the car.”  
“Did he tell you why?”  
“Yes.” Dean didn’t want to tell too much, wanted to see what he could get out of John instead. “He wanted you.”  
“Well, I don’t know what anyone would want from me.”  
“Really? No drunken brawls, no angry vandalism? You’ve been a perfect member of society since the moment we left?”  
“Does it matter?” John sighed and looked at him. There was sorrow in his eyes and Dean felt bad, truly, for being the one to have put it there. This man’s façade was strong and it made Dean want to pity him. He had to remember who he was though, to keep strong. “It doesn’t matter what I do, you’re going to see me as the villain.”  
“You killed me.” Dean said flatly. “I can’t see you any other way.”  
“I brought you back to life.”  
“That doesn’t change the fact that you killed me first.” Dean rubbed his neck, showing off the scar that he was so often hiding. He wanted his father to see.   
“Does Sam know?”  
Sam. Of course. John always cared about Sam.  
“No. he doesn’t know about all of the things you’ve done to me. He still loves you. Still sees you as a God.”  
A light smile graced his face and Dean wanted to punch it off. He’d heard that children of abuse fall into being abusers. He kept his fists at his side. He wanted nothing more than to be against that statistic.   
“I don’t want him to know.” Dean continued. “I want him to stay safe. I want you to keep your hands off of him.”  
“Safe?” there was some venom in John’s voice. “You want to keep him safe? You kidnapped him and dragged him around the country for four years! You went to fight clubs and got the shit kicked out of you! How is that keeping him safe?”  
“He never had you kill him, that’s how! He never had to hide someone in the fucking crawlspace so that they wouldn’t get their arms broken! He never had to clean your vomit off of the floor after you choked him! That’s how I kept him safe.”  
They were getting loud. There was no way that Sam wasn’t hearing them. They weren’t loud enough for him to catch words but they would be soon. Dean could hear him, moving, coming to the entrance between the dining room and front room, where there was no door. He wanted to know what they were arguing about. He wanted them to be playing happy families.   
Dean couldn’t do that.   
He couldn’t pretend that all of the things that had happened to him were a dream; he couldn’t pretend that the nightmares he suffered were of his father’s hands on his throat. He made a better father than he did a son.   
“I want you out of here.” John growled, his voice dark and the frequency rolling up Dean’s spine in waves.   
“You can’t ask that of me.” Dean retorted, trying to get his voice to the same level of intimidation. “I can’t leave Sam alone with you. If I go, he’s coming with me.”  
The anger in John’s eyes turned to panic. “No! You can’t! If you take him away from me. If you ever, ever, hint at taking him away again, I will call the police. I’ll tell them everything: How you stole the car, how you kidnapped him, everything.”  
Dean laughed at that. Sure, Sam was listening in, but he didn’t care. John wanted him out and it was here that he was standing on his feet, here where he was finally speaking up, ready to defend himself and his brother.   
“Go ahead! Prosecute me! You think they’ll listen to you? You think a recovering alcoholic with a history of anger management issues can stand against a kid with a face like mine? Take a good look at it. You see the broken nose? The scars? Sure, you didn’t give them to me but if you hadn’t fixed me up after every one of your little temper tantrums I would look exactly the same!”  
“They’ll never believe you! You said yourself that they’re not from me.”  
“You’re right.” Dean quieted down. There was so much anger and panic in front of him he was amazed he wasn’t bleeding by now; amazed that John hadn’t attacked him more than verbally. “They wouldn’t believe me. Not for my face. But they would believe in my throat. You remember that, don’t you? The one you never fixed? The reminder that I have to carry my whole life that I should never do anything you wouldn’t like again. You really think you can cover that one up in court?”  
John spit in his hand, the way he had so many times when Dean was younger, the way he always did before healing up some wound. “Give it here, boy!” he was desperate, pleading, but Dean stood his ground.   
He hated that scar, almost as much as he hated who gave it to him, but he didn’t want it gone. Not now, not when he may need it.   
“No. No, I’m not going to let you hide what you did. Not any longer.” Dean took a step back from him. John could pin him down, heal him by force. There was no way he’d give him the luxury. “You say that you’ve changed but, you haven’t really, have you? You act good, with your little AA medallion and your hugging and your cat, but you haven’t changed! That’s all exterior. You still have all of that badness in you, poisoning your veins. I can’t trust you, not for a minute. And there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you poison Sam.”  
John was moving and Dean had expected it but he still didn’t move. He knew the pain that came from a punch, hard knuckles into the soft space of his cheek, but he didn’t move out of the way. The fist came with a large smacking sound, the kind that he had grown accustomed to in the ring, the kind he would never forget.   
It wasn’t even a full second before he heard the tight gasp coming from Sam behind him, hiding in the entrance of the dining room.   
Dean was on the ground, a hand up and cradling his cheek. He knew that the bones of his skull weren’t broken, but it almost felt like it. He could feel it starting to swell, liquids rushing to the area and trying to heal it.   
John was standing, fists at his side. There was a look on his face that was incredibly sober, incredibly worried. The anger was receding and being replaced with self hatred, the kind that usually led to his drinking and the cycle to start all over again.   
“Like I said.” Dean rubbed at the pain in his cheek, “I don’t think you’ve changed at all.”


	8. Demon Seed

Dean’s back was to the door, his shoulders hunched and his attention on the road ahead. Sam stood inside, looking out the window in the front room. Dad had rushed off to his room and he hadn’t come out since the argument. Now Dean was outside, his usually slicked back hair purposefully mussed so that it would fall over his face, hide his features.   
Sam hadn’t seen his brother look like this in a long time. He was closed off, hiding. He remembered it well though, back when they were kids. He always pretended to be okay but then he would flinch when touched, and he looked so sad and hurt when he thought no one was looking.   
He knew now though. He understood the game that they used to play, he understood the unbridled hatred. It had always been such a confusing thing but now he knew. Dean had been hurt time and time again and he had hidden it from Sam, kept him safe. Again, Dean was protecting him. All he’d been able to do over the years was console him, but he’d never known what he was consoling him for until now.   
Sam could see his shoulders shake from where he stood inside. Dean had always protected him, yes, but he had a duty as well. Sam protected him from his emotions. All that had changed was that now he knew what the cause for them was.   
He kept an eye out for Dad but he was still locked away in his room. He could hear him muttering to himself though, through all of the space and the thin walls. He was safe to open the door and make his way out onto the doorstep. He didn’t bother putting on his shoes, it didn’t matter. Only Dean mattered.   
He shifted as Sam sat down beside him, hiding his face further.   
“Hey.” He mouthed and, while he tried to hide the emotions in his voice Sam could still hear the tremors in it. He knew Dean better than anyone. Now he knew him even better.   
“Hey.” Sam replied, sweeping some of the hair away from his eyes. He wanted to sound cheery, he wanted to say something more, but there was nothing.   
They sat together, silent, and stared at the road of the neighborhood. Togetherness, solidarity, that was enough for them in that moment. Sam tried not to steal glances over at his brother, tried not to spot the shaking of his arms and shoulders. He didn’t pay any mind to the wet spots on the cement between his feet, the ones falling from his eyes.   
He couldn’t though. He wanted to wrap an arm around his shoulders, hold him close against his chest, and let him cry and wail and emote. He knew that he couldn’t do that, that Dean wouldn’t let him. He didn’t want to be touched, not even by Sam.   
“I know this is too little, too late” he said, his words quiet and he wasn’t sure if they were even being heard, “but thank you for looking out for me. I never knew any hardship because of you and I never said thank you. You’re a great brother. The best.”  
Dean didn’t respond but one of his hands disappeared into the mess of his hair. He wiped away at the tears there, not wanting him to see the wetness and mucous, not wanting him to see him as weak. Sam couldn’t, there was nothing weak about him.   
He put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, soft and cautious. He did not jump at the contact. He wanted him to feel that he was supportive, that he loved him. And he did, he loved Dean, and he wasn’t sure if the love he felt was brotherly or not. He did not want him to feel ashamed of the emotions that were ripping through his brain and body.   
He didn’t think he was helping. He knew that Dean would feel weak, no matter what he did. He was crying and that wasn’t stopping. Sam understood him, had seen him cry so many times. Crying and not having control always made him feel weaker than anything else, from losing a fight to having a nightmare.  
“I didn’t want you to know.” Dean’s shaking grew until he couldn’t hold it in any more. He had tried so hard to keep Sam from finding out about the abuse he suffered for him. The crying became audible, a terrible gasping and panting combination, him trying to breathe as his throat closed and the pain he was feeling came out of him.   
Finally Sam was able to reach out, to wrap his long arms around his brother and pull him close. His façade of strength and stoicism had fallen, shattered and now he was safe to comfort. Sam didn’t care about the wet mess on his shirt, the way Dean’s tears and mucous soaked into his clothing. That wasn’t important. Only Dean was. He patted his back, let him cry. He didn’t want him to stop, not until he was all down and there were no tears left for him to cry. He didn’t want him to have to hold in what he thought he had to.   
He kissed Dean’s hair, then his forehead. There was a strange urge for him to kiss Dean’s eyelids as well, as if he could kiss the tears away.   
He glanced around, made sure that no one was around to see Dean in his weakened state. He didn’t want him to feel humiliation on top of everything else. He rubbed circles into Dean’s back as he cried himself dry.   
He wanted to leave, to get into the Impala and drive far away from here. He wanted to keep Dean safe, make sure nothing bad ever happened to him again. He wanted to keep him as far away from their dad as possible. All it took was one hit and he finally knew exactly what his brother had intended when they left all of those years ago.   
A navy car drove by. It wasn’t important. Nothing was. Only Dean.   
The car slowed down as it passed them by though and the driver looked out at them in a way that crawled under Sam’s skin. He glanced up and froze, seeing the stranger in his brand new Rolls Royce, passing them by.  
He kept going though and the car vanished from view. He left blue flower petals in his wake, a few of them landing in their driveway.   
Sam wanted to say something, let Dean know that the strange man had been there, but he kept his mouth shut. Dean was quiet, running low on tears.   
It was only a few minutes later that the man came back, walking instead of driving. He strolled right up to the house, not showing any mind for the security he claimed was keeping him out. He bent forward, looking down at Dean. He ignored Sam and that put a spike of unease in his back. He wanted to know what this man had for Dean.   
“This is what I had warned you of.” The man said, coolly. “Do you now believe?”  
Dean stilled immediately. There were no choked sounds of crying, no shaking. Sam could feel him moving though, each and every muscle in his body tightening. He looked up; let his hair fall away from his red rimmed eyes, the swollen bulge of his cheek. He didn’t care what he saw as he glared at him.   
Sam wasn’t embracing him anymore, instead he was holding him. As much as Dean hated it, Sam had been able to pack on strength better than he had. He buckled and held Dean down, kept him on the step.   
Dean was rearing, trying to get to his feet. He was angry, enraged, and Sam was terrified of what he might do.   
He calmed down slowly, but the glare didn’t leave his eyes, his teeth didn’t stop grinding. “No. You said I would come crawling to you for help. You were wrong. I’m not crawling, am I?”  
“No.” He admitted, straightening up. “I thought you may in trouble though. I thought I would offer my services.   
“What do you want?” Sam interrupted, a snarl in his voice that hinted at the anger that Dean showed.   
He could feel the man glare down at him, look at him like he was small and insignificant. “I have nothing for you, boy.”  
It was Sam’s turn to bristle, to get angry. He didn’t move though, didn’t act on his rage. He wasn’t a child. He had travelled the country, had witnessed things that most people didn’t even know existed. Sure, he was seventeen, but he had lived more than anyone else his age had, was more grown up than any other teenager she’d met. He was old enough for this.   
The man turned back to Dean, ignoring both of them in their anger. “Look, you want to protect your brother, right? This is the only way you can.”  
“Are you trying to threaten me?” Dean growled at him.  
“If you would like to think of it as a threat, then yes. I am not the only one hunting for your father. There are others and they are coming. They now know where to go. They know about you and they know that Sam is your weakness. They want to get to your father and they are not afraid to hurt Sam to get to him and to the knife”  
“What about that imaginary security system of yours?” Dean asked, using sarcasm to mask the pain that only Sam was able to see.   
“That will hold them for a while, most of them, anyway. But it won’t last. And it’s not imaginary. Tell me, what do you know about magic?”  
Dean shrugged. “I know that there’s no such thing. It belongs in a children’s book, not in a grown up discussion.”  
Sam glanced at him. He knew that, he had never believed in magic, not since he was very very little and even then Dean was quick to point out that the lightning bugs were not fairies and there were no monsters hiding in the woods. He knew that he was lying now though.   
The man, hands still at his sides, folded over once more so that his eyes could be on the same level as Dean’s. He did not move his aviators though and only the bright blue details of his irises were visible. “Now you know that’s not true…”  
Dean had said that Dad was a witch. That was his excuse for why they had to run away. It had struck Sam as strange then, that his brother, who never believed in such things before, had called him a witch. Now though, now that he knew what he had been hiding, he had thought that the abuse was the real reason. He wasn’t sure if he still believed in that.   
The pair stared at one another, not willing to be the first to break away. Sam looked from one to the other but he couldn’t see either of their eyes. The man’s, other than that unearthly glow, were hidden by his aviators while Dean’s were still blocked by his hair. The stare seemed to go on forever and it was only when Sam nudged his brother that they broke eye contact.   
“Fine. I think John does magic.” Dean admitted, shaking his head like he couldn’t even believe his own words, “It’s stupid though. Magic is made up! Or a trick. It’s not something that people actually do.”  
“I knew you believed.” The man stated, straightening himself out. Sam wanted to know what was wrong with him, what made him feel like he could do what he did. Sam wasn’t as cocky as this stranger, wasn’t as intimidating and half manipulative. It was unnecessary. “Magic is real, just not common knowledge. If everyone could do it it wouldn’t be magic, would it? You are right though, your father knows how to do it. He built a security system under the house out of it, keeping people like me out. That’s why I came to you.”  
“You’re crazy.” Sam breathed.   
Both of them looked at him as if they had forgotten that he was even there. He looked from one to the other.   
“What?” He asked, “It is! You’re telling me that Dad is some kind of witch who has done all of these terrible things without giving any proof! You’ve been following us for months, you’ve seen how we act, heard our conversations. How do we know you’re not just tricking us?”  
The man calmly turned back to Dean. “Did you tell him about the water?”  
Dean hung his head and shifted in his seat. “Whenever John… hurt me, he would heal it with water. I don’t know how to explain it other than magic. He would put water on me and say some word that I couldn’t understand, and whatever bruise, cut, break, it would heal up.”  
“You always told me there was no such thing as magic. You said the scariest thing in the dark was me. What else did you lie to me about?”  
“I didn’t want you to be afraid.” Dean said and Sam could finally see his face. The space where he’d been hit was massive and swollen, a dark bruise with no real shape growing through it. There were spots that were darker than the rest and they were in the shape of their father’s knuckles. Sam wanted to reach out and touch it, smooth away the skin with his thumb as if he could wipe away the discoloration. It was something he had always felt like he should do, but he knew it would only cause more pain. Dean’s eyes were puffy and red and they looked like they were hard to open. His eyelids were heavy and kept trying to close. “I wanted you to be strong and safe. I didn’t want you to be scared of all of the things that I was.”  
The man pulled off his sunglasses. I can prove it. Come with me to New York. There’s a lot of things about your father you don’t know.”  
Sam smiled, it was forced, but it was a smile. He thought Dean needed to see that. And Dean smiled back, nodded as if he understood, and rose to his feet. On the step he was more than a few inches taller than the stranger and he was able to look down at him.   
“Prove it here.” He ordered, “Right now. I’m not going to New York for something like that.”  
He rolled his eyes before turning and walking off with silent footsteps. He left the way he came, heading back to his big expensive car.   
“Thought so.” Dean sighed, sinking back onto the step beside Sam. He seemed calmer now that the stranger was leaving.   
“It would be cool though.” Sam thought out loud.   
“I guess.” Dean shrugged.   
Dean’s hair was still a mess, still hiding his face. He still didn’t want to be seen. Sam didn’t care though, was tired of his brother hiding. He raised a hand, nice and slow, and brought it to Dean’s face. He flinched though, shied away from his touch.   
He used to do that so often. He was always afraid of being touched by strangers but with Sam he had slowly learned to calm down, had trained himself to let Sam touch him. He trusted him. But now that he’d been hit his instincts were in full control.   
“It’s okay.” Sam whispered his voice soothing and calm, “It’s just me. I’m not going to hurt you.”  
“I know.” He replied and his voice was shaking again.   
He didn’t move his hand, let him press forward and place his forehead against his palm. He was slow when he did move it, feeling the air puff against his skin as he slowly exhaled. All he did was move his hair, run his fingers through it, and push it back into its usual place behind his ear, back away from his face.   
He would have had a good face if he had taken better care of it. He would have been handsome if it weren’t for the fights he went to. he used to blame himself for that, think that if it weren’t for him Dean wouldn’t have had to fight, wouldn’t have gotten his nose and jaw broken countless times, wouldn’t have gotten his skin lanced by rings and fingernails. Now he knew that it wasn’t his fault, but he still felt guilty for it.   
He leaned forward, just a few inches, and now it wasn’t his palm that felt the puffs of Dean’s breath but his lips. Dean’s mouth was soft and foreign, such a different thing. Sam pressed their lips together, expecting Dean to flinch but finding no resistance. He kept his kiss light and it didn’t feel wrong. It felt natural, even though his lips didn’t. He knew that this was wrong, that kissing his brother was wrong, but Dean wasn’t crying and his breathing was returning to normal.   
This may have been the worst idea but it felt like home.   
There was the sound of a voice clearing and they stopped, turned, back stick straight. The man was standing before them, head cocked. He’d been watching them. Sam felt cold and small and he wanted to hide away. This stranger knew they were brothers, what would he say?  
The stranger said nothing though, didn’t point out their relation or their sin.   
Both of them looked up at his and Sam’s mouth fell open as Dean’s skin paled from the blood draining from it. In one of his hands was one of those large blue flowers, the ones that Sam was used to seeing but still didn’t know the name for. In his right there was a gun.   
It was old, even Sam knew that. He had never seen a gun outside of a pawn shop or off of a hunter’s wall before. It looked bigger like this.   
The man stayed silent as he handed to flower to Sam. He took it on instinct, looking down at it. It was soft against his fingers, the petals supple and ridged with healthy veins.   
“You wanted proof?” He said, looking at Dean. “Here.”  
He took a step back and raised his hand, aimed the gun. Sam could only stare, the barrel of the gun right in front of his eyes. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. His body was rigid and cold, all of his blood having gone to his frantically beating heart and his fingers, which gripped the flower as if he would rip it to shreds.  
Dean wasn’t doing anything. Why wasn’t he doing anything? He had promised that he would protect him. He had taught him how to protect himself but never from a gun. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to feel Dean, his hands on him. He wanted him to do something. He wanted him to say something do something.   
“Kalasag.” The strange muttered and warmth flooded through Sam’s cold, shivering, terrified body.   
He looked down, amazed that he could. The heat, almost too warm, was spreading through his hands, leaving the flower. It wasn’t glowing, but shimmering, and a blue powder-like dust rose off of it, twirling in the light. It was strange and beautiful and he didn’t like it at all. He didn’t like anything that was happening right now. What the flower was doing wasn’t natural and, as the shimmer grew, the petals began to wilt and dry, curling in on themselves as a brown husk.   
The man fired.   
Sam’s eyes were good, but not so good that he could see a bullet racing towards his skull. He stared at it, eyes wide, expectant. He didn’t know how he was able to stare at it. The gun had been so close to him, he should have been dead already.   
The bullet was traveling slower, spinning in a way that he could see. It was a few inches from him and he could see the damage given to it by the barrel of the gun. He couldn’t breathe, could only look as the bullet seemed to contemplate whether or not it would strike him.   
The flower in his hand was so hot, he thought it would burn his skin, catch on fire. He wanted to let it go, but his muscles, as was the rest of him, were frozen. The bullet was inching closer and as it reached that heat, the metal of it softened.   
It hit a wall, something that he couldn’t see. It was so hot though, the bullet could not do anything but melt on it, turn into runny grey metal. It spilled onto the ground, cooling on the cement as soon as it touched it.   
“Well?” the man sounded so calm, didn’t sound like someone who had just fired a gun in a quiet neighborhood. “Is that enough proof for you?”  
Sam couldn’t move his body, but he could move his eyes. The man wasn’t paying attention to him, just like before. His eyes were on Dean, his gun down by his side. He was waiting.   
Dean moved, finally able to. His hands were fists and then not, clenching and opening. His face turned red as he sneered, voice loud and angry. “You shot at Sam!”  
“Yes.” The man stated, as if that wasn’t something surprising.   
“You could have killed him!”  
He smiled at that, “But I did not.”  
“I should kill you! I want you to stay away from him! Stay away from both of us!”  
The stranger crossed his arms. “You’re the one that wanted proof.”-  
There was another loud sound, not as loud as the gun fire but still, Sam moved for the first time. He jumped at the sound of the door flying open behind him.   
Dean grew pale, even paler than he had been before as he looked at their father in the doorway. The man seemed calm behind the safety of his thick black lenses, looking up at him. Sam was still shaking, tears bubbling in the ridges of his eyelids as he turned to look up at him. He was a mess, panic, anger, and fear fighting for dominance over his expression.   
Sam didn’t know how but he was on his feet, his father’s strong arms around him, holding him to him. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t hold back the tears of his terror back. He cried against his father, feeling his hands stroke his back. Even though he knew what a monster he was, he still craved the protection he made him feel.   
“You!” he growled, eyes blaring as he stared at the man.  
“Me.” He replied, still too calm, as he took off his aviators yet again.   
“How dare you!” his voice was shrill in his panic. “This is my family! My life! How dare you come near them?”  
“Yes well, you didn’t seem to be using it correctly and you have something that belongs to my client. I’m just here to get it back.”  
“Get out of here!” he screamed at him and he would have been swinging those fists of his if they weren’t busy, running up and down his son’s spine as he sobbed. “Just go! I never want to see you anywhere near here again!”  
The man didn’t move, just stood there with that small little smile. He thought he was better than him. In many ways he was but that was only because Sam didn’t know much about him, not as much as he did about his dad at least. He stared him down with those big blue eyes with their iridescent flecks.   
Eventually he sighed and reached into the breast of his trench coat. He pulled out a business card, checked it as if he wasn’t sure if it was his, and handed it to Dean. Dean stared down at it instead of at him.   
“Call me sometime.” He smiled. And then he turned and went back to his car, leaving the three of them there in front of the house to listen to the approaching police sirens.   
They were back in the house before the police cruiser actually arrived and there was nothing to see. On close inspection, one would find a tiny pool of metal that had formed a solid crust over the walkway.   
“What do you think you were doing?” Dad barked and it wasn’t just Dean but Sam as well who jumped at his anger. “Do you know who that was?”  
Dean’s eyebrows were raised in the center, causing rifts in his forehead. He didn’t look sheepish; he looked like a beaten dog with his tail between his legs. Sam was still in their father’s grip but if he hadn’t been he would have had his arms around Dean, reminding him that he was there. He wanted to be there for him.   
He’d never been able to protect him, had never known that he needed to. Emotional help was one thing but this was much worse. He expected Dad to hit him again, to do something terrible.   
He didn’t though, even though his hold on Sam was so tight that he couldn’t escape. He wasn’t hurting Sam, not quite, but his anger and fear went to his muscles and all of him was clenched around his son. No amount of his struggling would get him to let him go. Not until he calmed down at the very least.  
“Why would you even think to speak to a thing like him?” he continued hollering and Dean wasn’t gaining any confidence. He was just curling in on himself further and further as Dad’s voice stayed loud and aggressive. “He is a demon! He will lie to you. He probably has already! How could you be such an idiot?”  
Dean kept his head down, took the brunt of it. Sam reached out, not able to reach him but wanting to reassure him. He was stronger than their father’s words.   
“I should never have let you back in my house! You’re probably working for that demon already! You’re probably scheming together! That’s why you came back after all this time!”  
“Sam, go upstairs.” Dean mouthed and it was so quiet that he almost didn’t hear him.   
“How much has he told you?” Dad was growling now, finally going quiet. “What has he corrupted you with?”  
“Sam.” Dean repeated, staring at him, pleading with his eyes. “Go upstairs.”  
Sam shifted his weight, not taking his eyes from him. He couldn’t leave, not now. He had let this happen for too long, had let their father hurt his brother. Now he had to stay, had to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.   
Dean’s eyes though, they looked humbled and hurt. He didn’t want Sam here. He didn’t want him to see how weak he was in their father’s presence.   
Sam bit at that constant ring in his lip, bowed his head, and pulled out of dad’s hold. He was calmer now, panicking still, but without the hurry. Sam was able to escape and he did not run, but walk as fast as he could out of the line of fire. He made his way to the stairs but, instead of doing what Dean had wanted, he only made it up three steps. He sat there, still close enough to listen in.   
He had to be close, had to be there to help in case he was needed.   
Dad was yelling again, but it didn’t matter what he was saying, it was only what Dean said when he interrupted that brought that fear back into his voice.   
“Is it true? Are you a thief?”  
“What?” Dad was still bellowing, not even attempting to lower his voice. “You listened to him? Do you believe him?”  
“Well?” Dean’s voice sounded so sweet in comparison.   
There was a pause.  
The pause took forever, stretching its way back to the staircase where Sam waited. He looked at his feet. He knew that it was true, that he was a thief like that man had said. The hesitation gave it away. There was no way he could cover for it now.   
“I can’t believe this.” Dad’s voice was finally quieter, although now he was muttering, and the words were cold. “You actually believe that demon? You really think that I could steal something? I mean, I know I’ve done some bad things, have done terrible things, but… I wouldn’t steal anything… nothing important at least. Nothing that someone would be sent to retrieve.”  
“He said it was a knife; a museum piece.”  
Once more there was that silence, the kind that stretched too long and gave Dad away as guilty. Sam’s ears were peaked. He had to know now. There was no way that he could leave without knowing. Why couldn’t he just admit it now that they knew?  
“I… I can’t believe this.” Was all he said, repeating himself? It wasn’t a defense, not in any definition of the word. “What are you going to do?”  
There was no mercy, no hope in Dean’s voice. He sounded cold and metallic. “You should give it back.”  
“I can’t. It’s not that easy.”  
“Then I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever I have to. I’m going to go with that guy.”  
It wasn’t just anger in their father’s voice now, but pain, “No! You can’t! Please!”  
“Of all the people in the world, I don’t think you really have the right to beg anything of me. And I’ll take Sam with me. I can’t leave him with you. I don’t trust you with him for a minute.”  
Sam fought the urge to rise to his feet. It sounded so much calmer in there, in the living room, and he had half a thought that he would be able to return, that their father was defeated. He was supposed to be upstairs though, not eavesdropping. He didn’t know what to do, anyway.   
He wanted to go with Dean; he wanted to be around him. He couldn’t stand the idea of losing him. But he wanted to stay as well. He wanted an education, a life, and he knew that there was no way that he could get that on the road. They would live as they had before, once they were done helping that man and he couldn’t stand the idea of surviving from fight to fight again.   
“No.” Dad didn’t beg, not with that growl in his throat, it was turning back into a threat, “If you do that, they will kill me; they will kill your brother. They only need the one of you, if you take Sam, he will get killed.”  
“They?” Dean smirked and Sam could hear the twist to his lip, “A moment ago it was a he. Who all did you piss off?”  
Dad didn’t answer the question; he moved on, “I’m keeping Sam. He is my son. And you, you can’t go with them either. You can’t do this to me. If you even try I’ll kill you.”  
“Kill me?” Dean hissed, “I could have sworn you already had.”  
Sam could hear the sound of movement, a scuffle, and he knew what to do. He was on his feet, running back out into the living room. Sam trusted their father still, trusted him to do what he said he would, and if he said he would rather kill Dean than let him go, he would. There was no way he was going to let him get away with it. He would never get away with hurting Dean again.   
Dean wasn’t crumpled on the floor, hadn’t been hit. He wasn’t going to be, either. He wasn’t going to let their father hit him. His fists were at his sides and he was circling. Sam knew the stance well, knew it from all of those fights.   
“You can’t stop me, John.” He decided. “You kill me; you’re going to be arrested. I know that, and so do you. You won’t try anything.”  
Dad wasn’t fighting, not in a usual fighting stance, not in the stance that a normal human would even consider. His legs were apart but not angled right, messing up his balance. His hands were in front of his face, but they were open. He bounced on the balls of his feet as he watched Dean move.   
He spat on his palms. “Fine then. You really think you can do something, that that man and his kind won’t get you killed, go ahead. I can’t keep you here but you’ll see, being with them won’t be any better. I’m keeping Sam though. I’m his legal guardian, not you. I will send the police after you if you take him again.”  
Dean stopped pacing as his eyes fell onto Sam, a little wider than usual, stretching through the swollen mass of his black eye. Sam was standing in the doorway, silent, watching.   
“What do you want, Sam?” Dean asked. Dad stopped whatever it was that he was doing, turning at the sound of his name. He let the saliva dry on his palms. “Do you want to come with me?”  
Sam played with the ring in his lip. he didn’t like having their attention on him. He didn’t want to have to make the decision. “Well…” he stammered, “I. I want to go back to school. Air… you should go. I’ll just hold you back anyway and… Dad said he’d help me get my GED.”  
It was a hard choice. He wanted to go with Dean, he wanted to be safe. Nothing made him feel safer than his brother. Now that he knew who his father really was, there was an urgent need in him to run off. He wanted to be as far away from their dad as possible.   
He wasn’t an idiot though. He had seen the way that that man had treated him, knew that he wasn’t the one that was supposed to help him out. He knew that all of those fights had been won for him, that Dean wouldn’t have needed to go out and get hurt if he didn’t need to afford both of them. He knew that he would only slow Dean down.   
And there was that kiss. It was still on his lips, still stinging in his brain. He didn’t want to talk about it; he didn’t want to hear what Dean had to say about it. He wanted to think about it, what it meant. He was afraid of what Dean would think.   
He knew that he was doing the right thing by staying, but he didn’t like to see Dean’s face fall. He knew how badly he wanted them to stay together, that the distance would make him worry the whole time, too far to keep him safe.  
Still he turned and Sam was left looking at his stooped back, his limp shoulders, as he left the room. He made no goodbyes, didn’t pack, just made it to the door and out. He left them both in that living room, too awkward to speak to each other.   
Sam was up those stairs he had been ordered to climb, in his room, before Dean could even pull out of the driveway, before Dad’s confusion could turn back to anger. His eyes were full of tears and he brushed them away, not knowing why. He was alone and he was sad and there was no reason for him not to cry. He made it to his window though, looking down into the driveway.   
Dean hadn’t left, not yet. He wasn’t even in the car. He was sitting on the hood of the Impala, his face blank. There was no loss that he could see, no tears at the thought of leaving him behind. He wondered if Dean cared as much as he did and he knew that he did but he couldn’t see it.   
Dean slowly pulled out his cell phone, a brick that was even older than Sam’s. He pulled out the business card soon after and held it between two crooked fingers as he typed the number into the phone. The call was short and there was no chance for Sam to catch a word of it. He knew that he was telling that stranger that he was in though.   
He bit at his lip ring. He could taste the blood at the junction, where the wire wove through his skin. He didn’t care though. He couldn’t stand this. He couldn’t let Dean leave while he stayed there. They were family.   
He pushed the window open and climbed out onto the roof, the way they both had all those nights ago. He shouted out to Dean and he stopped, putting his phone back in his pocket. He looked up at Sam. He thought he saw a small smile.


End file.
